


When We Were

by HastaLux



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, BAMF Hux, Canon-Typical Violence, Gingerpilot, Gingerpilot Week, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, My Sins Are My Own, Non-Chronological, Not Beta Read, Republic Pilot Poe, Sniper Armitage Hux, gingerpilotweek2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-03 15:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14571882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: In the post-canon continuity of Last Jedi, Armitage Hux is having an extremely bad day- but it might all salvageable if a certain Resistance Commander is willing to follow through on an offer for Hux to defect that he's been making for twelve years.Twelve years ago, Lieutenant Hux was the First Order's best sniper, and Poe Dameron was a rising star of the New Republic Starfighter Corps. A chance meeting and a willful disregard for each other's personal politics leads to a torrid affair- but good things can't last forever, especially with another war on the horizon.





	1. To Start Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning- or possibly the end- there was a war.

Hux should have seen it coming. The so-called Supreme Leader had gone traipsing off into battle- showing off, as usual, in his supposedly “superior” TIE- and Hux had felt himself relax on the bridge for the first time in months without the Force-fueled child breathing down his neck. He’d tried to make a bid for Grand Marshal, or even just a firm position as Ren’s most trusted counselor, but it was clear he’d need to be patient for those. Ren spent most of his time alone meditating, or brooding, whatever it was he did in the dark. Hux didn’t care, so long as Ren knew that he wasn’t expendable. He was patient. Either Ren would promote him, or eventually he would do something about Ren and take the position for himself. One or the other was a simple eventuality. Hux could wait it out. After all, look how patient he had been with his father.

Fate, apparently, had other plans. 

Peavey had waited until the bridge crew were distracted by the battle, begged a word with Hux in his private office. Hux nodded- the battle was going well, especially with Ren out of his hair, making a nuisance of himself to the Resistance instead of his own officers for once and chasing down X-Wings. It was a small Resistance frigate, an old one to boot. Easy prey. 

Hux felt the shift as soon as he crossed the threshold. He’d always been able to read people, Force users aside. Peavey’s posture changed, just slightly. His hand shifted. Hux turned and caught the glint of Peavey’s blaster as his hand slammed the door control.

The shot still got through. 

“Kriff- kriff- kriff-” It hurts. It hurts _significantly_. He’d forced Peavey to fire early, so the blast went low. Not his head, nor a gut shot, either of which would probably have killed him instantly. Hux’s left thigh is searing. He draws his own blaster with a shaking hand and shoots out the door controls. _No way in, no way out._ He can hear more blaster fire on the bridge. Shouting. Someone screaming. Stumbling to his desk, he pulls up the security feeds of the bridge as he rips off his belt and ties it above the blaster wound. Peavey, the traitorous bastard, isn’t alone. There is a group of them, all older, Imperial-era hardliners, escorting his most loyal away from their posts over the bodies of what looked like Tritt Opan, Unamo, and a few others. The ones that would have reacted with a violence to any suggestion of harm to their General. Poor Mitaka is crying when they force him away from his station, little Lusica Stynnix, a young but remarkably useful transfer from the remnants of the Supremacy’s crew, clinging onto his arm, holding him up, but at least Peavey’s men aren’t shooting them once they get away from their consoles. There is a large group of stormtroopers gathering just outside the bridge in support of Peavey’s group as well, taking over the escort of the other officers once they’re pushed from the room- probably to the brig. This is the shit he has to deal with without Phasma telling them what to do. Apparently they’d just throw their loyalty at whoever’s orders sounded the most interesting. 

He doubts when Ren gets back he will take too kindly to the restructuring. The thought gives him a bit of pleasure, the idea of Ren coming to his rescue- assuming that Hux won’t bleed out before he returns.

Which- actually, if he was pulling this on his commander, something he has more than a little experience with... He pulls up the audio. Peavey thinks he’s smart. He’s just going to shoot Ren down. _If he thinks it’s that simple, he hasn’t been paying enough attention._

Hux hails him on his private comm line. “Ren- Supreme Leader, you must return to the ship. Peavey’s lost his mind. He’s planning to kill you.” _And me, as it happens._

“I know.”

“You… know.” Hux blinks. _I kriffing hate the kriffing Force._

“He won’t manage it.” He sounds far too casual about it. Hux immediately feels deeply and personally offended. Typical.

“He won’t- Ren, he _shot_ me.”

“You aren’t dead.” 

“I am trapped in my own office while _a coup is occurring on my bridge._ And he SHOT ME. Get _back_ here and deal with this!”

He hears Ren sigh. _Oh, inconveniencing you, am I, you little shit-_ “General-” There is a rumbling noise through the comm. Hux glances out his viewport. Three large Resistance ships, some revamped version of the old Mon Calamari hulks, drop out of hyperspace, incinerating a large amount of TIE fighters misfortunate to be in their path. _Lovely. As if things couldn’t get worse._ Ren makes a dissatisfied noise. “Fend for yourself. I am busy.”

Hux flips back into the bridge’s audio and listens, frowning. They aren’t going to call for backup, and Peavey thinks the Resistance would likely take care of Ren for them. Idiot. They’re just going to leave Ren there and jump without him. “Ren- listen to me, Peavey is going to leave you behind-”

“Let him. I can follow. Cease distracting me,” the so-called Supreme Leader growls into his comm.

Hux hears the line disconnect with a very firm click. “Kriffing child…” Hux pulls up his datapad. The Finalizer would take a bit to prep for hyperdrive, especially with the shift in bridge personnel, unfamiliar people at stations they aren’t used to. He has some time time to plan. They haven’t managed to revoke his security access yet- but Peavey sent some of the troopers to get the appropriate equipment to cut through his office door. Good. That would take them longer than they thought, it was quad-layered durasteel. Hux drafted the schematics himself in case of a sudden disruption to the bridge, such as someone putting a missile through it. He’s rather hoping the Resistance gets one in so he can test the design while watching Peavey’s head rupture in vacuum. 

He flips through the security feeds until he finds Mitaka and the others. His brow furrows. They aren’t near the brig. His mind speeds up, analyzing their path, the likely outcomes….

_Oh._

The troopers are planning to eject them from an airlock.

“Absolutely not,” Hux growls at his console. He puts in a sequence of override codes. As if he’d have planned this room to be his fortress in case of bridge collapse without also building in everything he’d need to also run _his damn ship_. The first triggers the next door the troopers mean to walk through to read as ‘closed due to mechanical failure’, forcing them to turn down a different hall. They walk a ways down it before Hux drops an emergency vacuum sealant door, cutting off the rear guard of the troopers from his officers. Then he clicks on the comm to the hallway. “Stynnix. I hope you were paying attention to Opan.”

The corner of her lip quirks up, visible even on the monitor. He can see a little shift at her wrist and she leaps up to the closest trooper and rams a vibroblade through the weak point in his armor just under the helmet. She’s fast. Opan had been a decent instructor. Mitaka, on the other hand, is shocked almost into catatonia, staring as the troopers round on them. “Mitaka. Pick up that gun. Clear a path.”

Mitaka always responds well to clear, direct orders. He hefts the troopers rifle and opens fire. The other officers follow suit, arming themselves as troopers fall. Hux can’t help but be impressed as Lusica darts forward and puts her blade through another trooper’s faceplate. He smirks darkly. How utterly tragic that stormtroopers were considered so expendable that their armor was far more for psychology than actual use. Terribly. Tragic.

When the hall is clear, he can see them turn. The troopers stuck behind the vacuum door are trying to get through. Unsuccessfully, for now, but eventually one of them might be smart enough to try a different corridor. 

“Shuttle bay,” Hux snaps into the comm. 

The officers run. 

He flips through the cameras and remotely sets the on-sequence for the nearest hyperdrive-equipped shuttle, assigning the nearest droids to join it as well, mostly since he isn’t sure how recently any of his team have piloted. “Berth 9. Your route should be clear if you hurry. Mitaka.” He can see the younger man’s head snap up. “Consider yourself in command. You are going to have to make a decision about where to go. Peavey may have the support of others in the Order, but there might be someone out there you can trust. Use your best judgement.”

Mitaka jogs forward and locates a comm terminal by the shuttle bay entry as the others run on into the shuttle, taking down a few troopers that try and stop them. Hux lets himself smile thinly as he realizes there are technicians and a few troopers that seem to be joining his wayward, fleeing band. “Sir? We can loop around and acquire your escape pod, sir, I know there’s one in-”

“No time. You’ll be shot down by the Resistance if Peavey doesn’t get you first.” Hux sighs. He’s out of options, here in his little fortress. Waiting to die. “Consider this a promotion, Mitaka. Get the others somewhere safe. Assess. You’ll think of something.” 

“Yes sir.” Mitaka, bless him, salutes the camera. Hux feels something strain in his chest as he watches all that remains of his team, _his_ officers, board the shuttle, lifting off just as another battalion of stormtroopers makes it into the bay and opens fire. Hux overrides the blast doors and crushes a number of them where they stand, his eyes stinging. _Traitors._

He takes a breath and sinks back into his chair, eyeing his blaster. Nothing else to do but wait for them to come. He used to be an excellent shot. He wonders how many of them he’ll be able to take with him. _It won’t be long now._

He hears it through his surveillance feed of the bridge.

“Heyyyy there _Finalizer_ , I’m holding for General Hugs.” Hux stares at the feed, hearing a stunned, pained laugh erupt from his own chest. “You all are looking a bit outnumbered and we’re sort of hoping you’ll make this easy on us and surrender.”

Hux shakes his head. _I don’t deserve you, Dameron._ How many times had Dameron tried to offer him a way out, how many coded messages laid down in full sight of both their crews, without anyone knowing? And every time Hux refused, ignoring the offer. Every time. _But not today._

There is, improbably, one more option, one more chance, one last thing he could do other than sit here and wait to die.

He grins despite himself and sets to work.

A drawer in his desk contains what he is looking for- a small bit of metal and plasteel that he links between his datapad and the expansive console in front of him. He loads it into his computer and begins the transfer. He won’t take it all. There are ships out there that he knows have the best interests of the Order at heart, Admirals and Generals who won’t side with Peavey. He’d leave those be. But the others… he doesn’t feel too badly about sacrificing them. Contacts he had long distrusted would be burned. Research that is not his own could be pawned away… yes, he had a good idea what would be ideal for that. He needs the leverage, if he’s going to ensure his plan works. As it copies he removes a set of curved metal sections and a small spherical casing, more a prototype than anything else, and clicks its pieces into place.

As for his own plans, his weapon designs- those are in his head. He wipes them from the pad and from the _Finalizer_ ’s system. Peavey will not have them. 

The hiss at the door and the faint red glow through the plasteel tells him they’re starting to cut through. What else, what else…. He doesn’t have time. He copies over the list of Resistance targets, sympathizers, where some of them misfortunate enough to be captured are being held. The door is warping. It will have to be enough. He withdraws the datapad, tucks it into an inside pocket of his greatcloak, and sets the small prototype orb on the desk. One press to the button on its top allows him to withdraw a bit of plasteel the length of a stylus with pressure points all along its body. He closes it in his fist.

The last thing he does at his desk is reach into the lowest drawer, one sealed to his own biometrics, and pull out a long, slim box. He carries it to a side wall of the room and taps a panel. A piece of the wall recedes and reveals a single-capacity escape pod. This was it, then. He takes one last glance around his office, his own personal throne room for the last few years. It hurts, what he’s about to do to it. Hopefully it will hurt _them_ more. 

The pod’s hatch closes as his office door gives way. His eyes meet Peavey’s and Hux makes an extremely rude Arkanisian hand gesture at him, smirking as he slaps the escape pod control. As the pod ejects, Hux lets the pressure control in his hand fall. 

The eruption of fire hurls his pod out faster than it’s meant to go. Alarms shriek in his ears, but he smiles all the same. The bomb, a novel design he hadn’t previously managed to test, isn’t meant for a large impact, though Hux holds out hope that he has managed to blow Peavey’s traitorous head off- but it would surely inconvenience them, and more importantly it renders his console impossible to hack by virtue of turning everything in its immediate vicinity into a fine powder, so everything he had ripped off the network would remain unknown. They would probably think he was just protecting designs once they realize they’re gone- and he is. But that’s not his only goal, not anymore. 

He shuffles around in the narrow space to make room for the case, clenching his teeth to prevent himself from crying out when the blaster wound in his leg brushes the wall. It had partially cauterized in the heat, but he’s still hemorrhaging, even with the belt tied off above it. He probably should have taken the med kit with him too. Ah, well. Hindsight. 

The case is narrow enough to slide up the narrow confines of the pod and partially open against the space under his ribs. His old rifle, folded up and neatly put away, gleams at him. He smiles at it and brushes a finger over it, putting the nostalgia of the gesture up to blood loss. What he really needs is the small white comm tucked in beside the barrel. _Twelve years. I’ve had this for twelve years._ And no one knew. No one alive, anyway. He’d always suspected Phasma knew, and Dami had even met him, once. Both dead now, Dami for years and years. But he's kept it charged whenever he takes out the gun to clean, which had grown less and less frequent over the years. Perhaps it’s the ritual of it that made him keep it up. Something about seeing the little green light when he would boot it up… he can only hope there is enough charge left now to make one final call.

A low hum emits from the comm and the light blinks at him soothingly. Hux sighs. Last chance for regrets…. He glances out the small viewport as the _Finalizer_ finishes its turn and vanishes into hyperspace. _Well. No room for regrets, then._

He feels a little lightheaded as he toggles the comm. “Dameron, I’m very much hoping you still use this frequency.”

He waits, holding the comm to his chest, eyes closed. Of course he doesn’t use this frequency anymore. They were on opposing sides of a war. Either they’d see Hux’s pod and grab him anyway, or he would just drift and drift…

“Hugs?”

Hux startles enough that he bangs his leg off the side of the pod again. Kriff, but that is really starting to hurt. “Indeed.”

“But… the _Finalizer_ is out of range. This comm won't work in hyperspace.”

“Yes. I’m… probably two klicks to your left. Escape pod.”

“You’re in an escape pod.”

Hux lays his head against the back of the pod, feeling somewhat faint, unsure whether it’s from an overwhelming sense of relief or shock setting in. His vision is blurring. “Yes. Don’t repeat me. There was a bit of an incident.”

“An inc-”

“What did I say. About. Repeating.” The rifle case slides back toward his feet. It seems it will take his full attention just to keep the comm near his mouth. “I would appreciate a tractor beam, if you can spare the time. And perhaps the use of your medbay.”

“You’re injured.” Dameron sounds… concerned. Or perhaps that’s the shock. It’s getting a bit hard to tell.

“Yes. Though I’ll be honest, if any of you are planning to execute me, forgo the med bay. I’d rather just bleed out.”

The line gets quiet again. Hux imagines that Dameron is discussing whether or not they ought to kill him. He would understand if they did. If their positions were reversed… well, he could speak to that point with experience. 

“...bring you into the hanger. … Hux? You with me?”

Hux blinks. A black out. Not a good sign. “Intermittently. Listen. If I happen to die before you get to me. There’s a datapad in my pocket.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I’m not entirely certain you have any say in the matter.” He feels the gravity in the pod shift. Tractor beam. That’s nice. Hux relaxes. At least someone would have his body. Dameron would probably even bury him on a planet instead of shooting him out into the nearest star. His vision is fading, even the light of the ships is faint. He feels like he’s on the sea, drifting in and out, and in….

“...about this datapad. … Hux? … Dammit, get him in here!”

Hux wakes again when his pod hits the deck. He squints against the light as Dameron hauls him out. “Kriffing hells.” Hux wheezes. “How can you still pick me up?” he mutters at Dameron. 

“One of us had to keep in shape. Where’s my medical team?” Dameron yells out to someone else in the hanger. “Hugs, just hang on for a few.”

“If you keep calling me that… I will be forced… to stab you.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m definitely confiscating your dagger. Medical! Come on, people, get a move on.”

Hux’s head lolls, his cheek landing on Dameron’s chest. He even smells the same, damn him. Something… like wood. He never asked what it was. Hux reaches a shaking hand into his pocket. “Datapad.” Dameron grasps his hand, his bare fingers against Hux’s glove.

“I’ve got it. Try not to move so much.” Dameron lifts him as the medical team arrives with a stretcher. Hux is certain he was bound for a dip in bacta. Not his favorite, but at least he won’t be conscious. Or living, if they took much longer about it. His cheek feels cold without Dameron beside him and Hux tries to reach for him as they take him away, the lights winding into darkness.

“Poe….”

***

“You realize this is a terrible idea.”

“Well.” Poe runs a hand through his hair, trying to keep a smile up at Leia’s holo. “He did give us a ton of information, and we’re not even all the way through analyzing the drive. I think it’s a sign of good faith.”

“Or he’s trying to bait us into something.”

“Well, we’re going to have to wait ‘til he’s conscious to ask him.”

Leia snorts. Yeah, she doesn’t trust this a bit. Poe can’t exactly blame her. “How’s he doing?”

“Not great. They’re not sure about the leg yet. Might have to take it off.” He shrugs. He'd rather have Hux alive without a leg than dead and whole. “Someone tried to kill him. I think he was pretty pissed about it. He loves that damn ship, would’ve had to be bad for him to leave it.” Poe sighs. “Ben was here too, and the _Finalizer_ tried to leave without him. Did, actually, but he’s got a hyperdrive on that monster he flies, we couldn’t bring him in. And from our readings another shuttle took off from the destroyer and left separately. That’s what it looked like, anyway. I’m thinking coup.”

“Hmmm.” The general switches into her analytic mode, the one that made her a damn fine Senator when there was a Senate to be on. “Interesting. Keep an eye out for any propaganda we can intercept. Hux is the face of the whole Order, if they got rid of him deliberately we should see someone else taking over that role. If they expect him back….”

“Then they’ll run recordings that are still him. Yeah. We’ll keep an eye out.”

She nods. “Do. And Poe?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Remember this is not the same man you knew before. He ordered the destruction of five inhabited planets. That isn’t something forgivable, no matter what he’s come to you with now.”

“I know.” He does know. He _does._

“Good. Get me a report when he’s awake.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Poe sighs again as the holo vanishes. If only this had happened before kriffing Starkiller, then keeping Hux alive wouldn’t be so kriffing difficult. He’d still be a high-level defector, but he wouldn’t be… 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed. At least Hux had held on to the communicator. Held on to it for… what was it now, ten years? More? That had to mean something, even if he’d never responded any of the other times Poe had offered. Over and over. But Hux had his pride, and he really did think the First Order was doing the right thing. “Idiot,” Poe breathes, glaring at the glittering darkness beyond his viewport. 

“You are, but this is actually pretty interesting.” Connix was waiting in the doorway with a datapad, one brow arched with a smirk on her face. 

“Real nice. I’m not sure which one of us they were punishing by making you my second.” 

“Me, I’m sure. Anyway. Your new pet sociopath actually gave us quite a bit. Personnel listings for a few ships, some First Order supplier information-”

“Arms?”

“Looks like a wide range. Parts, credits, fuel.”

Poe smiles. “That’s great. We can make a lot of targeted strikes.”

“That’s not the best bit though. He included a large Imperial-era research file with a ton of recent addendums. I think it’s one you’ll want to see.”

He skims over the header and whistles. “Hyperspace tracking? Shit, he really is serious. Get that to Rose.”

“Already sent. She squealed so loudly into the comm that the audio shorted out.”

“Good. Okay.” Poe puts a knuckle to his lip. Would that be enough? Would anything? They might not kill Hux now, but… a distant chance at forgiveness….

“You still can’t trust him.” Connix had always been a better protege to Leia than Poe had, and she can read him just as well. 

Poe grimaces. “I know.”

“It’s nice to know though.”

“What is?”

“That he might have a soul.”

“Yeah.”

She lets him be. Most of the cruiser is, at this point, giving Poe some space. He’d heard them, when they didn’t think he was listening, wondering how the hell _General Hux_ had the frequency to his private comm line. Wondering what it meant.

Poe isn’t sure what the answer to that is himself.

He walks over to the table that serves as his desk when he needs to attend to the more administrative parts of command (most of which were better left to Connix, but some were unavoidable). He opens the container that had come over in the escape pod with Hux, a slim black case with a few scratches in it. He would’ve recognized it anywhere. 

He’s opened it several time since Hux arrived, and he knows what he’ll find- polished plasteel, disassembled parts, all still remarkably well cared for. 

He picks up the long barrel and spins it on his fingertips. 

This is part of the Armitage he remembers. Part of the Armitage who could laugh and feel and even, from time to time, looked like he knew what joy was.

And Hux- General Hux, the face of First Order propaganda; serious, stick-up-the-ass Hux- brought this with him. 

Poe has to believe that’s because Armitage- _his_ Armitage- is still in there.

That has to mean there’s a chance for that angry redhead’s soul after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me for my first ever Gingerpilot, written for Gingerpilot Week 2018. 
> 
> All comments are welcome!


	2. Downscope Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hux had to let Poe be broken to save him and almost broke himself, and the unlikely start of the mess they're still trapped in.
> 
> (Gingerpilot Week Day 4: Hurt/Comfort)

Pain.

Hux stirs briefly, noting the feel of the oxygen mask, the tubes, the feeling of something… something working on his leg, stinging and yet half-numb.

His eyes flutter.

There’s a distant sound and a pulse in his arm- the sudden wave of sleepiness would indicate either a potent painkiller or a sedative.

He thinks he sees a dark haired figure just on the other side of the glass- Mitaka? No, no- Hux isn’t on the _Finalizer_ , the _Finalizer_ is gone, it’s…. Poe, of course it’s Poe.

Armitage inhales shakily and then sleep takes him once more.

***

#### A Year Or So Ago

“Sir?” Mitaka peeks into Hux’s private office. “The shuttles are returning from Jakku.”

“Did Ren acquire his map?”

“No sir. Captain Phasma indicated that he killed the man who was meant to have it-“ Hux scoffs. Of course he did. “-but they did acquire a Resistance pilot from the village who is being brought back for questioning.”

Hux feels everything around him pause. _Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic-_ “Anyone of import?”

“One, uh- Commander Poe Dameron, sir. They’re awaiting him in interrogation.” Hux’s face twitches and he forces it to fix in a sneer.

“Excellent. I’ll be down to see the results myself.”

“Very good, sir.”

He waits until the door closes to sink forward and cover his face in his hands. _Why._ Why, of all the pilots in the Resistance, did it have to be Dameron? Hux wants to throw up. He wants to cry.

What he does instead is plan.

Hux won’t be able to stop the interrogation- not completely. Too suspicious. But if Ren… does the _thing_ that always leaves a distasteful feeling in Hux’s mouth, they will stop interrogating Poe for a while. Ren is like a rathtar with a scent when he wants something, he’ll get what he needs about the map and get out. If Hux is very, very lucky, he won't see anything about Armitage in Poe’s head.

Which also meant he can’t let Poe see him. Poe can’t be thinking about him when Ren goes in. Poe can’t even know Hux is on this ship. 

That hurts, more than he wants to admit. The first time in years he has the chance in person to say… anything, and he can’t take it. But that was his choice, wasn’t it? The comm had been there, Poe had sent messages that Hux never responded to. _Because this was the better choice, wasn’t it?_ He sighs and ducks out onto the bridge, nodding to Mitaka as he strolls out to the lifts, trying to keep his mind blank- he never knows where Ren might be lurking about these days. He marches into interrogation to a bevy of salutes. “What have we learned?” he snaps at the nearest officer.

“Nothing, sir- he’s been saying the same thing over and over.” The officer flicks open the audio channel from the adjacent room. The room where they are keeping Poe. Just one wall away. Hux tries not to stiffen as he hears Poe’s voice.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you- that I’m the best pilot in the Resistance.”

Hux closes his eyes as though he’s thinking so he doesn’t visibly flinch when the interrogator strikes him. “Where is the map, Resistance scum?”

“The map to place I’m listed as the best pilot? That’s just everywhere, babe.”

Kriff, he really didn’t get _less_ cocky with age, did he. Well, they weren’t going to get anything out of him that way- Hux’s instincts had been right, and he is quite sure Poe doesn’t need to see the Order’s more advanced interrogation tactics. He gestures for them to cut the feed. “This is going nowhere. Alert Lord Ren. He wants this map in such haste, he can acquire the location out of the pilot’s head himself.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Hux successfully walks out without dislodging the contents of his stomach onto the floor and returns to his quarters to dunk his face in the coldest water he could summon from the tap. _Keep it together._ By the time he returns Ren is in there with Poe. He paces outside the door, trying very hard not to pass out at the sound of Poe’s screaming. _This is fine, it hurts but it’ll be over soon, it’s so much better than anything else they can do to you, just hang on, hang on, Poe_ ….

If Ren sees anything about Hux in there he might as well toss himself from an airlock, so he snaps to attention to face his fate when Ren comes out. “It’s in a droid,” Ren growls through his vocoder. “A BB unit.”

 _Oh, kark, of course it is._ “Well then. If it’s on Jakku, we’ll soon have it.” 

“I’ll leave that to you.”

Hux lets himself breathe again when Ren gets down the corridor and rounds the corner. He wants to go in, look at Poe- but no, it’s too much of a risk. It’s his office, that’s what he needs. He has to plan- there has to be a way to get Poe off the _Finalizer_ without anyone noticing. Once he’s there, he pulls up the feed of Poe’s interrogation room, where he’s been left restrained and unconscious… and there’s a trooper there to remove him. Interesting, seeing as no one had authorized that… He watches them with interest as they move through the corridor. Oh. _Oh._ The trooper is defecting. 

If it was for anyone other than Poe Hux would be very seriously wroth about the treason of it, but at this point he’s willing to sacrifice a trooper to make sure Poe gets out. He watches them slip into the TIE and takes a breath. No one has noticed, they should be able to get out… of course, it’s not that easy.

He waits until he is summoned back to the bridge to do anything about it, leaning over Mitaka. “Sir, they’ve taken out our turbolasers.”

And, as Hux can’t help but notice in the readout, the ventral canons are offline. _Just buy a bit of time, Poe can fly them out._ “Fire the ventral canons.” And then Ren is looming behind him, and it takes all his willpower to manage to stay irritated instead of panicked. Words are tumbling out of his mouth, rote and calm until Ren finally leaves him alone. He swallows.

“Sir, ventral canons hot.”

He had to trust that Poe could dodge them. _Please, dodge them._ “Fire.” He only watches the first wave- Poe dodges them easily, good. Hux can’t watch the rest, he strides to Phasma instead, keeping the bile in his throat down as they review the trooper’s record. _He’ll be fine, he can fly anything-_

“General, they’ve been hit.”

He feels himself go a bit pale. Things feel suddenly very far away. “Destroyed?”

“Disabled.” He only vaguely hears the rest. Jakku, the droid- of course, the droid. Poe would never leave him behind. 

“Send a squad to the wreckage.” He marches back into the office and closes the door, leaning against it as he feels a hot sting in his eyes. _Find him. Please, find him._

***

#### Just About Twelve Years Ago

In low orbit over a remote planet just across the edge of Republic space, Poe Dameron waits impatiently for anything interesting to happen. He’s bored enough that he’s even taken to staring at the cloud formations and trying to find shapes in them.

This is supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, but his target has done nothing but get sloppy on liquor and spice. He’s supposed to be a crime lord- so where’s the crime? Poe doesn’t even have an astromech to talk to, not in an A-wing. They told him he’d be better suited to A-wings: he learned on one, for starters, and they’re faster, more maneuverable. Excellent for stealth, for recon, and for hit-and-run attacks on enemy targets- except the Republic doesn’t do that, not anymore. They’re demilitarizing. Planets who want their own security can make it, but the Republic is keeping its own force small. No fleets of frigates, no vast insurance policies against attack- because they’re at peace now, and the Empire is gone. From here on in it the battles are supposed to be political.

Poe’s not so naive as to think it’s that easy. Planetary conflicts, squabbles over resources- there’s always something. And he’ll be ready. 

He squints at his surveillance feed. The target is returning home. Poe wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing- but it was a change, so at least he had that to be a little less bored. He dips farther into the atmosphere and is surprised to find a small heat signature out beyond the walls of the little fortress his target had set up in the badlands. A single heat signature… and traces of weapon readings.

“Huh.” Poe zooms in. “And who are you?”

***

Armitage has been lying in the same spot for several hours, waiting for his target to get home. He’s looking far down scope from a hill above a bit of a drop-off, far enough away that no one should even hear the shot. His ID12 droid hovers low to the ground nearby, serving as a secondary watch and keep an eye- or several antennae- on nearby heat signatures and comm traffic. He has no support team. That’s the point here, a full incursion team is too obtrusive, but the location remote enough that he had to be sent in on foot from quite a ways away or their transport would be too easily spotted. And the erratic nature of the target’s schedule meant he could be waiting for days. The target is a Zeltron, which was the main reason this has to be a remote kill. Zeltrons could do weird things up close, picking up on emotions or supposedly influencing them like kriffing Jedi with some sort of psychic mischief if you believed in that load of nonsense, which Armitage most certainly did not. He’d read the file, it was just quirks of biology and the unique susceptibility of the human mind to believe in utter bantha shit regardless of the evidence otherwise. Though half of his unit was irritatingly vocal about how great Zeltrons were in bed. At least the bit about powerful pheromones had a basis in science.

He spent the first night on reconnaissance, working out the best angle where he’d have maximum coverage of the building. It was bigger than he’d expected. Intel said the space was something like a secure vacation home, maybe a safe house, somewhere the target could go to get out of the city. Up close, Armitage can see it has far more defenses that had been mentioned in the report. Especially blast shielding. The entire building can clamp itself closed and block his shot if he’s spotted. So he’ll have to be sure he isn’t. 

The target returns on the third day. He’s called Keston Vollar. Armitage had barely glanced at the reason the Order wants him dead, not that he would be trusted with that, not as a mere Lieutenant. It doesn’t matter in the end _why._ It only matters that it happens. 

Armitage just needs him to make a pass by the right window. 

An exhale marks the start of his count. Things seem to slow around him- it’s a trick of psychology, but it always makes him feel more precise. Vollar is moving, almost there-

He fires on his fourth heartbeat.

The bolt tears straight through the transparasteel window and squarely into Keston Vollar’s skull. He inhales. Perfect. Armitage allows himself a thin smile. He swiftly begins to disassemble his rifle- he’ll have to move soon, but Vollar’s security team is already locking down their little fortress behind the blast shields. That should be distraction enough that they won’t go looking for him yet. “ID, do a heat sweep on the area. Let’s make sure we don’t have any company on the way back.” The droid chirps, whirs, and chirps again in a more concerned tone.

“What do you a mean ‘a ship?’” Armitage squints upward.

ID bends one of his thin legs toward the cloud cover, chittering in binary.

“A-wing?” He frowns. The Order doesn’t use A-wings. That meant either the Republic has some interest in the target as well, or someone else with access to Rebellion ships does. And if an ID12 can spot it, this one isn’t being subtle. It’s flying quite low.

A panicked series of beeps draws his attention back over the ridge. The target’s protective detail is mustering with far greater speed and numbers than the intel report had indicated, and they look hostile. 

And they have speeders.

 _Kriff._ “ID, latch.” The droid pops onto his back and spins, locking itself into his thin armor. “Shields up. We’ll run for it.” He gets the rifle into its case and snatches up his carryall, a tint of glowing blue generated by the droid behind it, his only real barricade between him and far more firepower than he’s comfortable with. His legs carry him into a sprint. To get to real safety all he needs to do is make it to the tree line. 

The tree line had been a one hour walk away when he had been moving slow and in automated camouflage. He isn’t sure how long it will take at a run with his rifle case and carryall in hand. Probably too long. Armitage has been trained to lead, not be a mindless trooper in the field- he can’t run at a dead sprint for as long as he’ll need. He’s only even assigned these missions because he’s an exceptionally good shot. That and his father is probably hoping he’ll conveniently die in the field one day- he seems constantly conflicted over whether Armitage’s success is a useful reflection on his own abilities or some sort of personal insult. Too bad for him, Armitage is an excellent strategist as well and usually manages to avoid the obvious death traps.

Only he doesn’t see an immediate way out of this. Maybe this will be the time Brendol gets lucky. 

He looks up. There’s a shadow coming through the clouds, growing more solid by the millisecond.

The ship is fast, though the pilot is taking it on a drastically unsafe path, far too close to the ground. “What the kriff-” It skims over Armitage, drops low, and opens fire on the speeders. Several of them turn and flee, back to the base, and the rest are mowed down quickly- they aren’t built to face an A-Wing’s weapons.

The A-wing slow turns and lands, popping the canopy. The man inside slides out and sits on the wing, pulling the helmet off. _Handsome,_ Armitage notes with irritation. “Hey!” The pilot waves. “Are you okay?”

 _What the kriffing hells._ Armitage stares. In no universe should he be getting rescued by what looks an awful lot like a New Republic spy ship.

“Do you need a hand?”

Armitage blinks. “Uh-” 

He’s cut off by a loud whir of metal back at the house. They both turn as the top of the now-fortified compound opens and reveals an anti-air turret.

“Shit,” they each say in the same breath.

The pilot rams his helmet back on and yells at Armitage as he jumps for the cockpit. “So, I can probably jam you in here if you want to not die.”

Armitage can hear the whir of the turret turning into position. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He sprints toward the A-wing. “You better be able to fly with me in there.”

“Sure I can. Probably.”

It’s not as if Armitage has any better options. His height lets him jump and haul himself onto the wing fairly easily, and he slides across the metal to the open canopy. The space behind the pilot is quite narrow. He sighs. His thin frame usually isn’t a strong point, but this would have to be the one exception. He slips into the space allotted and squeezes his bag and case in by his waist. It’s a tight fit. Very tight. Armitage is remarkably aware of the pilot’s proximity and warmth even through his own slim armor, especially when the pilot shifts back, basically pinning him. ID12 lodges a muffled complaint from the direction of his shoulder blades.

“Better just put your arms around my waist. The harness won’t fit two so just put it on yourself.” _Are you entirely serious._ Armitage rolls his eyes but gets the straps secured as the canopy closes over them. “Okay, here we go.”

The ship is _fast_ and the pilot flies like he’s on spice, so Armitage can be forgiven if he yelps when they suddenly spike into the upper atmosphere. He braces his feet against the side panels- he doesn’t want to risk getting smacked in the nose by the pilot’s helmet so he swallows his pride and buries his forehead into the man’s shoulder. The upside of that is that he can’t see the sky outside. Armitage isn’t really comfortable with atmospheric flight, not after being in space for so long. He can do it, but usually it’s in a nice, smooth shuttle, not in a ship designed more or less like an interceptor. “Didn’t you get out of range yet?” he manages through clenched teeth after a third maneuver makes his stomach drop.

“Yeah, just about there. You don’t want me to show off a little?”

Armitage is cut off from the start of a very serious protest by another stomach-twisting spin. “I’m about to show off the contents of my stomach. Now, if we’re clear- land.”

The pilots tsks. “Fine, fine. Some people are no fun at all.” 

They come to rest near the wreck of a building on the outskirts of a city. Armitage isn’t sure which one- he could be on the complete opposite side of the planet from his shuttle pickup. If that’s the case, he would have been better off against the turret. 

As soon as the canopy is open he hauls himself out and skitters across the wing, dropping unsteadily to the ground. This is a nightmare. The pilot is almost certainly with the Republic. Armitage should have stabbed him in the air- would have, if he thought he could get to the controls with a body in the way. _Liar,_ his mind whispers, _you didn’t think about killing him once._ But there wasn’t enough room. _And the pilot is handsome._

He should do it now. The Order would love a Republic A-Wing, something to use for reconnaissance or infiltration. Armitage only has basic flight training but he’s confident he can figure the system out.

The sniper rifle isn’t an option- it would take too long to put back together. But Armitage also carries a small sidearm and a dagger.

The dagger would be the most subtle.

“So, what are you, mercenary?”

Armitage arches a brow. His sniper’s outfit bears no signs of his affiliation- the First Order, unlike the Republic, apparently knows how to remain discreet. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

“I’d be interested to know who wanted that Zeltron dead.” The pilot quirks a grin at him as he shuts the ship down. “Could be some credits in it for you if you could give me a name.”

The dark-haired looks far too good with a grin on his face. _Stop that. Terrible idea._ “No, thank you.”

“No? That’s too bad.” The pilot climbs across the wing and sits on the edge, letting his feet dangle. Armitage weighs his options. Dagger through the ribs as soon as he gets down, or blaster now…. “But, see, that rig you’ve got in? Looks very, uh, Imperial to me.” The pilot smiles widely. “Real interested to know where that came from too.”

 _I suppose we’ll go with the blaster, then._ Armitage slowly starts moving his hand toward his side arm. “Why would you care?”

The pilot’s eyes flick to Armitage’s hand. He sighs and shifts his own hand onto his thigh. There’s already a blaster in it. _Kriff._ “See, I was kinda hoping you weren’t gonna do that.”

Armitage reaches. The pilot, blaster already in hand, is much faster. He only has a vague sense of his droid detaching before the stun blast hits him.

***

Poe listens to the ID droid chirp sadly. He had to lock it in a box after it tried to shock him. Twice. Good thing it didn’t come with any more advanced combat tactics. It had then raged at him in binary for at least an hour before it grew despondent enough that Poe felt bad and started talking to him. “He isn’t hurt. I might even let you see him after he wakes up. If you can both behave.” The droid whirs. Doubting. “No, really! I promise. I don’t want to hurt either of you unless I have to.”

The man doesn’t have any identification, which isn’t surprising. He’s some sort of assassin, definitely- the sniper rifle is a thing of beauty and well cared for, the sidearm and vibroblade suggest he isn’t lacking in close quarters tactics either.

The problem- the thing Poe doesn’t really think he _wants_ to acknowledge, but at the same time, has to- is that all this equipment looks military. Imperial military, specifically, in aesthetics if not outright labeled as such. Even the droid seems to be an advancement on old Imperial tech he’s seen in training holos and combat sims. 

But the Empire is dead. And the few that supposedly got away shouldn’t have updated tech, or young people in their ranks. They should be out there in the husks of old star destroyers, waiting for death. It should be something he reports right away. He should bring the sniper in, let the Republic question him.

Still. He hasn’t called it in. Poe will. Eventually. Probably. 

He’s put the redhead in manacles in the meantime. Just to be safe. A fact that said redhead does not look pleased about when he finally wakes up. “Are you kriffing serious?” he shouts indignantly from the spot where Poe has magnetized the cuffs to the wall.

“Well. You were going to shoot me.”

“When the- when my people come looking for me, they will blow this whole building to pieces and raze the ground, and dismantle your ship piece by-”

“So are you more into monologuing than dialoguing? Because I can gag you if you’re going to have a problem with that.” The redhead’s mouth clicks shut, and- is he blushing? _Cute._ “What’s your name?”

The redhead’s jaw works for a second. “Armitage.” No surname. No rank. It’s a way to keep his identity concealed without entirely lying. _Fine, two can play that game._

“Hi Armitage. I’m Poe.” Armitage eyes him warily. “I’m not planning on shooting you, as it happens. In fact I even let your droid off without so much as a disassembly. It’s in that crate over there.” The droid chitters at him, confirming. “But if I don’t get some reasonable sounding answers out of you, I will take it apart and run it through every program I have access to until I get what I need, and it will probably be painful.” Poe might be getting optimistic here, but he’s always gotten on well with droids. Even though the A-wing doesn’t have astromechs, he can imagine the pang if he thought a droid that was an integral part of his mission, his- sense of self- was so threatened. 

But he can’t be sure the redhead is as… thoughtful.

Armitage looks at him, runs his tongue over his teeth, glances to the crate the droid is in. “And what is it you think you’re entitled to know?” 

“Who do you work for?”

The sniper’s cold eyes consider him. “No.”

“No?” Poe arches a brow.

Armitage glares. “I am obligated to protect… my organization. Give me a question I can answer and I will.”

“Fine. Why did your _organization_ want Keston Vollar dead?” The Zeltron was… by all accounts, not a good individual. Poe knew why _he_ was supposed to be keeping an eye. There were allegations that he’d been vanishing people off Republic worlds. Scientists, at first. Then children. And besides that, he was some manner of local crimelord, part of a whole family that openly fought any suggestion to join the planet to the Republic. That was enough for the Senate to bless a bit of poking around outside their usual environs. 

Armitage runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking. Poe can almost feel him calculating. Then he shrugs. “I do not need specifics for my mission. As far as I am aware, he made promises that he did not keep.”

“Financial?”

“Contractual, I would imagine. I was given the impression he was paid for work and dallied too long in completing it.”

“What sort of work?”

“Not my area. I’m only ord- employed to eliminate them, not to investigate. By the time I am needed that sentence is passed.” Armitage looks cooly confident about it. Fair enough. He’s an extraordinary shot, that’s true. But Poe doesn’t think he’s a real assassin- not a mercenary one, anyway. Those wouldn’t talk at all. They wouldn’t be worried about damage to an Imperial model droid. They wouldn’t be intimidated by cuffs and stern words. Whatever Armitage is, he isn’t much used to encountering _people._ At least not living ones. 

“Okay, then-” Poe cuts off as he hears a noise outside. Some sort of craft, low flying. “You got friends I should know about?”

“No….” Armitage listens, pondering the sound of the engine, and shakes his head. “Not one of mine.”

Poe runs to the window and looks out just in time to see a thick laser carve right through his A-wing. His eyes snap up. The vessel is Clone War-era trash cobbled back together and bearing a Vollantine Gang marker. “Kriff.” Okay. He can figure out his route off the planet later. Right now he needs a way out of the kriffing building before they bring it down on top of him. He sprints back to Armitage and detaches his cuffs from the wall. “Think we gotta go.”

“What kind of ship is it?”

“I think most of it used to be a LAAT, but I don’t know what you’d call it now.”

“Let me out of these and get me my gun.” Armitage doesn’t sound nervous. He has a commanding voice when he isn’t nervous. Poe could sort of get into that. _Stop it. No flirting in combat situations._

“You can’t shoot it down with a sniper rifle. It’s a ship.”

“Watch me.” _Alrighty then._ Poe shrugs and unclamps him from the manacles. Stupid idea, probably, but he’ll take a chance on not blowing up against the risk of probably being shot at later. He kicks the crate containing the droid open and tosses the rifle case to Armitage. 

“How long do you need to put that thing together?”

The sound of a heavy laser carving through the lower building supports sends a shockwave through the building. “Probably longer than we have.”

“Alright. Let’s give them a distraction.” Poe starts to run outside, pauses and turns. “Can I borrow your droid?” He glances over- Armitage gives a curt nod. The droid makes a disapproving whir but goes to Poe anyway. “Hey there. I’m sorry about putting you in the box and I won’t do that again.” The droid makes a skeptical noise. “I know, I know. We can talk about that later. Could you overload something for me?” The droid extends a delicate limb. “Great. Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

Poe books it outside with the droid clinging on to his flight suit, explaining his plan on the run. He wrenches one of the A-wing’s lasers away from the wreckage of the ship and tilts it up. “Okay, go for it.” The droid shoots sparks up as he forces the emitter to take the charge the ship can’t provide and a bright, haphazard beam shoots into the air. “Alright. Let’s see if we can hit them before your buddy gets a shot off.” 

The LAAT is a slow mover, and as it evades the beam Poe can guide it closer to the building. At least Armitage would have a better shot that way….

A bright red bolt goes straight through the LAAT’s heat sync vent and into the primary gyro stabilizer. The whole thing begins to twist and drop, emitting a screeching noise until it slams into a fiery ball on the ground. Poe looks up. Armitage is balanced in a high window, gun lowered, looking dramatically perfect with the light catching his hair. _Ah, shit._

Poe is really going to need to work on his impulse control, because _man,_ that’s hot. Even the droid notices him staring. _Mouth=shut, pilothuman,_ he chirps, laughing in binary as he floats back to his master.

Fortunately, the burning ship and the carved out mess of his own ride would have to be enough impetus for Poe to get it together. He leans into the mess of his cockpit and yanks out a few key items. Direct comms, his emergency signal, anything that can prove this ship is Republic. Fortunately there isn’t much, it’s meant to be a spy ship so it doesn’t have Republic markings, and anyone looking closely would find it registered to a very, very private company specializing in corporate espionage. In short, the sort of spying everyone expects and no one cares about. 

“Nice shot,” he says as he brings his supplies back inside and sets to consolidating what he’ll have to carry and hiding the rest. Armitage is already lovingly disassembling his rifle. “So- you got a way off this planet?”

The redhead shoots him a look, thinks, then shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Planned pick up?”

“....yes.”

“How long?” Armitage glares again. “Look, I don’t care who or why, you just saved our asses and that gets you a pass on questions, okay? I’m asking because my ride won’t be able to come get me for a few days and I’m about to go book a hotel. You can go sleep in the grass if you want, whatever.” _Or, you know, get a drink with me._

The ginger locks his jaw, then shakes his head. “Four days.”

“Perfect. Split a room?” _Split a bed?_ It wasn’t as if he got shore leave very often, and if Poe was being excruciatingly honest with himself he really had to stop sleeping with other pilots. And mechanics. And comm specialists. Anyone associated with work, really, which basically eliminated most people he spoke with. And the ginger was cute. Possibly- scratch that, _definitely_ homicidal- but cute. 

“Um-”

“Just follow me if you want. Stow the droid, though, that’ll attract too much attention. Kind of low tech here. Oh, speaking of-” Poe rummages through one of the remaining crates and draws out a long coat that he pulls over his flight suit, and a wide green poncho that he hands to Armitage. “We’re both dressed a little conspicuously, best hide that until we have a chance to change.”

Armitage stares at the poncho. “Is there anything… not this… in there?”

“You’re welcome to look!” Poe shoulders his duffel. “Just follow me if you’re coming.” He turns and walks on. The ginger will come. He’s got a good feeling about it. And hopefully he won’t shoot Poe. They’ll have four days of potential fun and then they’ll never have to see each other again. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask.


	3. Sleeping With the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things gained, some things lost. Poe educates Armitage on matters of taste. 
> 
> (Gingerpilot Appreciation Week Day 7- Orange Appreciation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings in the End Notes.

#### Present Day

Poe doesn’t care what sort of looks it gets him. He’s ordered Hux’s sickbed rolled into his own quarters as soon as he’s well enough to be moved. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Connix asks him quietly. “People will talk.”

“People are already talking. Tell them it’s for the safety of all parties involved. I need to keep him where no one’s going to try and kill him, and I know firsthand that he’s just as much as risk to them as they are to him.” None of that is a lie. _But I can’t lose him again._

“Fine, but it’s on your head.”

The time passes slowly as he works from his quarters on a chair he's dragged over to where he can see Hux, quietly rotating between actual administrative tasks and browsing the holonet and just staring at the rise and fall of Hux's chest under the sheet. He’s eternally grateful that they’re alone when Hux finally starts to come around, bleary-eyed and blinking, so no one sees how fast he jogs over. “Hey, Hugs.”

Hux glares at him as best he can and shifts, clinking the manacle that ties him to the gurney. “I’m having a bit of deja vu,” he says hoarsely.

“Pretty sure we’re not gonna get shot at this time, if that’s any help.” He sits on the edge of the gurney but Hux turns away, not quite meeting his eye. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a destroyer.” Hux chuckles darkly. He sneaks another glance at Poe, then looks away again. “You didn’t let me die.”

“You knew I wouldn’t.” Hux nods, not looking up. Poe stretches his hand out, stops just short of putting it on Hux’s chest. “Hey, it’s not-“

“Are they going to execute me?”

Oh. Of course. That’s what he’s worried about. “No one’s got any plans to-“

“But they still might.” 

Poe purses his lips. “Not while you’re on this ship.”

Hux’s eyes shift so he’s looking at Poe just out of the corner, toying with the sheet that’s covering him. “So I am under your protection?”

“If you like.” Poe starts to pull his hand back only to have Armitage snatch it tightly, his other hand frozen near his thigh, pulled back like it’s just been burned. “Hugs?”

“Poe.” Hux looks up. He looks _scared_ , which is a look Poe thinks he’s only seen once before. “If I- if I look under this sheet, what am I going to see?”

Poe takes a deep breath, which does nothing to reduce the panic in Hux’s eyes. “It’s still you, okay, still you- just-“ He can see Hux start to break as his shaking hand creeps down and contacts metal and plastic. Hux makes a noise low in his throat that rends Poe’s heart in half. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine-“

“Why?” It’s half a growl, half a sob. Hux clenches Poe’s hand harder.

“It- the bolt cauterized too much of your femoral artery, you lost too much blood flow- it’s not the whole leg, they saved as much as they could-“ Hux makes a pained noise and Poe pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him about hoping like hell he’s not about to get punched off. “It’s gonna be alright. This is just temporary parts anyway, I’ll get you whatever you like- I’ll get them to make it in gold if that’s what you want, anything- anything that will help, okay?” He’s just blathering- words aren’t really going to help, but they spill out of him anyway, desperate promises of anything that will take Hux’s pain away. 

Hux leans into him, choking a sob into his chest, and then he’s weeping openly, clinging onto Poe like he’s the last life sign in the system. “I know,” Poe strokes his hair, soft and loose without that military polish he’s been using for years. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

*****

#### Just About Twelve Years Ago

_This is a terrible idea._ Armitage follows Poe at a short distance, wearing the ridiculous green poncho over his lean sniper’s armor. ID12 is hidden under it, muttering his quiet disapproval via the occasional low chirp. “I know,” he whispers. “I’ll get you out of there in a bit.”

So. More or less stranded in a- what does this qualify as, a city? He’d need to get back to his pickup point, stars knew how he would manage that. And he’s tailing after a Republic pilot, of all people, for no better reason than that he seems decent and unlikely to cause Armitage’s imminent death. 

And, perhaps because Armitage finds him handsome. Which is painfully frustrating. His ideology is all wrong, for one, for another, even First Order pilots are known for being ridiculous flirts and _they_ have proper _rules_. Who knows what these Republic pilots got up to.

No, it simply isn’t worth the risk. Though he would do the man the favor of not killing him, since they were square on saving it other. Clean slate. Wipe the board and forget as soon as he leaves the planet. That’s all.

_Pilothuman = Fond of view._ The murmur in binary comes quietly from his back. “What?” he whispers in response. 

_Admiring of AHux._ “Er-“

_Query- AHux admiring pilothuman?_ Armitage blushes. “Shut it.”

_Change in AHux color = statement accuracy._ “Hush, we’re getting close to a populated area.”

Poe leads them to some sort of ramshackle building with the crumbling remains of an elaborate tile pattern covering the front. “This place got hit pretty hard in the Clone Wars,” Poe says from behind him, voice suddenly alarmingly close to Armitage’s ear. He wills his body not to blush again. “Haven’t had a chance to rebuild a lot of it yet.”

“Why not?” 

Poe shrugs. “I suppose because wars keep happening, and this region of space is nearly always contested.” 

Armitage frowns. Arkanis was _contested_ too. He’d never gone back after the evacuation. Perhaps it looked like this, decrepit and fading. Although if this were Arkanis it would be raining. “There isn’t a war right now.” _Not yet._

“Sure, but I’m not the sort of optimist who thinks people will just stop trying to make a grab for power just because we have a Senate again.” Poe clasps his hand around Armitage’s shoulder and he involuntarily jerks. “Oh- sorry, uh….” Armitage can feel the heat rising on his face. People didn’t touch him, generally. A hand up after sparring, maybe, but nothing… casual, and… oh no. Is he staring at Poe? He looks away, back to the wreck of the tiles. “Yeah. So. Rooms are this way.”

He reaches out and grabs Poe’s bicep, quick to release it again as soon as he turns. The gesture makes him nervous, but as Poe had just touched him…. “I- should tell you that I don’t have any credits with me.” _Oh, stars, he’s really warm._ He can still feel it on his hand. The urge to do it again makes him tuck the offending hand behind his back.

Poe arches a brow. “Seriously?”

“My- employer- expects me to sleep in the target’s vicinity. Rural, in this case. No allotment.” Not entirely true- he did not have any personal money, but he has access to operational funds for emergencies. Tapping that account in front of Poe would be a mistake. It would also look like the mission had gone awry when it was spotted by financial control, and he doesn’t need anyone thinking he’s incompetent. The target is dead, after all, Hux has done his duty. And there would be some satisfaction in making the Republic pay to house him. 

“Oh. Well.” Poe thinks for a moment, and the fleeting grin that runs across his face worries Armitage. “Guess you’ll have to share with me, then.” 

Armitage blinks. Alright. He walked into that. “Fine,” he says tersely. “They better have something with two beds.”

They do not have something with two beds. The best they could get for the credits Poe _claims_ he has is a large bed in a room with a sofa. ID chitters as he detaches and floats about the room. “You take the bed,” Armitage says. “I’m not used to that sort of fluff anyway.”

“Then you should take it. I’ve slept in cockpits, the sofa is fine for me.”

“I’ve slept on duracrete while waiting for a target.”

“Hanger floor.”

“In a tree.” ID makes the binary noise equivalent of rolling his eyes.

“You’re only making my point for me.” Poe tosses his bags into a corner. Armitage can feel him looking, and deliberately turns his head toward the window. “What if we share?”

“Excuse me?” _Kriff._ He’s probably blushing again. Armitage wills himself not to meet Poe’s eye.

“Split the days. You said four until your people arrive, right? So you get two days in the bed and I get two.”

“Ah- alright. That is… equitable.”

“Great!” There was a rustle of fabric behind him. Poe is- oh, stars, he’s stripping, that orange flight suit pulling off his well-developed shoulders- 

Armitage snaps his eyes back to the window, definitely blushing. “What are you doing?”

“Getting out of a conspicuous outfit. You should do the same.”

“I don’t have anything else to wear!”

“Really?”

Armitage runs a hand through his hair. There isn’t much point in keeping it orderly when he doesn’t have anything to slick it down with. “Not anything else… inconspicuous,” he mutters. Poe is raising a brow. He doesn’t even have to see it to know he’s doing it. He sighs. “Don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His small carryall doesn’t have much space in it for clothing- it accommodates the rifle, a few grenades, and ration bars for the duration of his outings. But, as he usually accomplishes sniping missions early and efficiently- there is, buried at the bottom, a plain black tank top and a thin pair of pants, meant to give him something more comfortable to wear while hiding out and waiting for his pickup. But it’s not something he feels terribly comfortable in, not in public- feels too much like wearing his nightwear outside. He slips into the refresher to change, and when he comes out Poe is wearing a leather jacket and a t-shirt and perfectly civilian pants. _Oh, he could blend in anywhere_ , Armitage thinks. 

Poe furrows his brow. “That’s a perfectly normal outfit, Armitage. Why would you think that’s conspicuous?”

Armitage sighs. “I’m just not very used to being out of-” _uniform_. Only he can’t say uniform, because he’s supposed to be some sort a mercenary assassin, isn’t he, and they don’t have uniforms. “-my armor,” he finishes lamely. 

“Uh-huh.” 

Armitage sighs. “ID, standby mode. Let’s not waste your battery.” He sets the curled up droid on the stand closest to the door and goes back to his pack, digging out a ration bar- he’d missed one when they were making their way into the city and he was kriffing starving. 

“Is that- all you have to eat? Just those?” Poe sounds incredulous.

“What’s wrong with rations?” Armitage frowns at him.

“They’re kriffing depressing, that’s what. Come on, I’m getting you real food.”

“I don’t need-“

“You do, it’s hurting my soul that you think that’s a good meal.” Poe looks genuinely concerned. “Please let me save you from the flavor equivalent of eating sand.”

“It’s not-“ Armitage is prepared to protest this, he can justify making the Republic fund his sleeping quarters but letting Poe feed him as well feels like a _date_ and this is decidedly not that. But Poe is looking at him with big, dark, earnest eyes and he feels his protests evaporate. “Fine, if you insist on being a martyr about it.”

“I do. Come on. You’re too skinny anyway.” 

They go on a bit of a walk through the city. Poe points out details as they pass, historical markers, notes about local specialties in fabric and dye. Armitage wonders how he retains it all. He is certainly never as well prepared for any need to interact with civilian areas on his own missions- he is given enough to carry out his duty, from distance and usually alone. That’s all. There’s never any… color. 

Poe is apparently _made_ of color. He hardly stops talking.

The place they stop to acquire food is not a restaurant but a stand. “Restaurants can be so… loud, don’t you think?” Armitage has the lingering feeling Poe can tell he’d be terrified in one. How would he know what to order? He’s never had the option to choose what he eats, only whether or not to eat. He takes the time to explain the options to Armitage and manages to sound casual enough about it that Armitage doesn’t feel patronized. He orders tea and some sort of a vegetation and meat wrap- he’s not entirely clear on what kind of meat is in it, nor what the vegetables in question are, but Poe seems certain he’ll like it.

The seasoning makes his eyes water and Poe looks at him in concern. “It’s supposed to be mild!”

“I- er…” The First Order does not really season food. That would be extraneous and a waste of resources, though Armitage is aware that high-ranking officers and their ilk can do so. “I haven’t had anything this spicy before.”

“You have not eaten anything with _flavor_ before. Listen, you have to tell me who you work for now because I need to have very serious words with them about what real food tastes like.”

Armitage grins despite himself, the heat of the food, minimal though it may be, making his cheeks faintly red. “I’d actually like to see that.” _But they’d probably shoot you as soon as you started speaking._

“I’m serious! I’ll do it.”

Armitage eyes him. “No. That is a terrible idea.”

“Why, is everyone else you work with unnerved by proper seasoning?”

A thin smile crosses his lips. “Oh yes, that’s quite it. The merest hint and we’d have to put you out an airlock.”

Poe laughs. “So you do have a sense of humor. Good. I was worried for you.”

Armitage snorts. “You were not.”

“I was. No experience with real food and no laugh, I’d have to assume you were a very well-made droid.” Armitage wafts a hand out to swat him but Poe ducks him easily, weaving back and around so he lingers at Armitage’s opposite shoulder. “Of course,” he says in a low tone that manages to send a shudder through regions in Armitage’s core that he usually tries to ignore entirely, “now I know that you’re based on a ship. Just have to find the one ordering the blandest food in the sector.”

Armitage’s glare feels far too forced. It even might be verging on a smile. _Oh, kriff._ He’s definitely in trouble.

***

There’s more walking, more dancing around the matter of their respective allegiances- everything about that best left unsaid, really- and then there are drinks. Poe insists on showing Armitage the joys of decent alcohol, which becomes very interesting very quickly as he rapidly realizes Armitage isn’t used to it. At all.

“Can I touch your hair?” he slurs after his third, which was how many it takes for Poe to realize that he should have stuck with one until he knew how Armitage would react. Which leads to Poe hauling him back up to their room before Armitage’s body can catch up and probably start ejecting all three drinks all over both of them. 

“You can, if you drink some water.”

“Fiiiiine.” 

He drags Armitage into the bed, sits him up against the pillows, acquires a cup of water. “Okay, drink.”

Armitage does so, then wraps his pale thin fingers in Poe’s hair. “S’thick.”

“Yep.”

“I don’t- touch- people.”

Poe tilts his head, holds the glass out and gets Armitage to drink a bit more. “Why’s that?”

He shakes his head. “Just… don’t.”

“Okay. Well-” _Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it_ “-you can touch me if you want to.” _Dammit._

Armitage positively beams. He cards Poe’s hair like he’s studying it, runs a finger over the stubble erupting along his chin. “Sharp.”

“You’ve never let yours grow out?” Armitage shakes his head. “Well, mine comes in fast. Probably have a full beard again by the time I’m out of here.”

The ginger laughs, pressing a hand to it. “Bet it looks good on you.”

“You wouldn’t look bad with one either.”

“S’not re… I couldn’t.”

_Not regulation._ Poe bites down the urge to dig further into that. It’s not the time. “Here. More water.” 

“Can you…?”

Poe tilts his head, unsure what Armitage is blushing about now. “What’s that?”

Armitage grabs Poe’s hand, presses it to his own cheek, and nuzzles. _Well._ “Armitage- you’re drunk, you know.”

“Mmm.” 

“Here- finish what’s in this cup- thank you- now I’ll just refill it and set it here, okay? You can have the bed tonight.”

“You don’t want to… keep me company?” He asks it so earnestly that Poe has to stop himself from just climbing right into the bed with him.

“I….” 

Armitage tilts forward, drops his cheek against Poe’s chest. “You smell nice,” he mutters.

_Oh, kriff._ “Thank you.” He glances down, tries not to study the delicate line of Armitage’s shoulders, the way his black clothes set off the freckles along his neck. “Hey, I’m just gonna refill….” he pauses, noting the shift in breathing.

He’s asleep. 

Poe tilts him back gently onto the pillows and pulls the blanket over him, refills the cup and sets it on the nightstand, then relegates himself to the couch. It’s not comfortable, but that’s not what makes it hard to fall asleep. That culprit is his own damn mind, which keeps repeating _can I touch you?_ at him, and reminding him of the pleasant press of another body against his chest. 

When he eventually does sleep, it’s in a cloud of frustration and a half-hard throb between his legs. 

He’s awoken in the morning by the groaning and retching sounds of Armitage experiencing his first ever hangover. Poe nurses him through it, acquires tea and plain biscuits that he nibbles at until he becomes fully himself again sometime around nightfall when both of them end up draped on the couch, letting the credits roll on a holovid about a group of friends having some sort of adventure in a cantina while drunk out of their minds that Armitage has been watching with a studious sort of interest. “Why do people get drunk?” 

“Fun? It’s more fun if you’re used to it, though. I’m sorry about that, I didn’t realize you-”

“It’s fine. Besides… parts of it were… pleasant.” Armitage is blushing, looking away. Poe feels his impulse control bending. 

“Any parts in particular?” 

Armitage glances over, chews his lower lip. A pale hand shifts over to Poe’s thigh, resting palm up. Poe wills himself not to immediately grab it. “I said I don’t… touch people.”

“You can still touch me. If you want.” _Terrible idea._ Also possibly amazing idea. After all, it’s two more days and then probably never seeing each other again, which is a far better scenario than the last few people Poe had bedded and then saw in the hanger every day for months with varying degrees of awkwardness. 

The hand on Poe’s thigh flips over. Armitage’s thumb skims over the fabric. Poe swallows. “It would be alright if you touched me as well,” the ginger says after a moment of contemplation. _Stars, yes._ Poe reminds himself to be gentle- this is not a rushed post-op fuck in a discreet maintenance tunnel, Armitage is… special. Someone Poe can show even the most basic forms of indulgence to that he looks at with a sort of wondering surprise, like the stroke of a finger across his cheek that makes his cheeks flush a deeper red. _Gorgeous._

Poe strokes his thumb across Armitage’s lip, soft and just barely damp. “Can I-”

“Yes,” Armitage breathes, hot against Poe’s finger.

Their lips meet softly, tenderly. Armitage isn’t that shy, nor hesitant- it turns out he’s very responsive, he follows Poe’s lead with ease and reciprocates eagerly. Not completely virginal, then, but a bit inexperienced. That’s fine. Poe can teach him.

They spend an age simply kissing, feeling. Poe’s pleasantly surprised when Armitage is the one to go for his shirt. “I have been with a few people, you know,” the ginger says in feigned irritation at his grin.

“Have you.” Poe licks the dip under his ear and feels him shudder.

“Perfunctory meetings. Enough to- hnng- get by- what are you doing?”

Trailing his teeth down Armitage’s neck, Poe smirks. “Not being perfunctory.” He makes amazing noises, Armitage does, especially when Poe gets his hands under that cute little tank top, most of them adorable inarticulate. “Thought you’d be more of a talker, given your little rant when I had to cuff you.”

Armitage shakes his head, a pleasant flush across his cheeks and down his neck and his voice breathy. “Only when I’m- ah- trying to buy time.”

“Bet that works most of the time.” Poe kisses across his collarbone, running his fingers over his nipples.

“Apparently- fuck- not on pilots.”

“Bed?” Poe asks. When Armitage nods, Poe startles him by hoisting him over his shoulder and carrying him over, chuckling at Armitage’s protests about the indignity.

“Showing off?” Armitage huffs from the spot he lands.

“Just a bit.” 

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Pilots.” 

Poe grins cheerfully and climbs over him. “So is there anything-” he’s rather forcefully cut off when Armitage executes a flawless leg hold into a flip and Poe finds himself pinned down. He smirks. “Now who’s showing off?”

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me.”

“Oh no?” Poe arches a brow. 

“No.” He kisses hard- Poe’s taken aback by the force of it. He hardly notices when Armitage undoes his pants and slides his hand inside until he hears the sound of his own shocked moan. 

Poe chuckles. “So you just go for it, huh?”

“I know what I want.” Armitage leans in and licks along Poe’s neck. _Fuck he’s a quick learner._ “You should take your pants off.”

“You’ve got a bossy streak, don’t you.”

“It’s been mentioned.”

They spend much of the night exploring each other to distraction, culminating in Poe holding Armitage’s hips to the bed while he licks over his cock, lavishing him with such thorough attention that Poe has heard whoever’s unfortunate enough to have the room beneath them banging on the ceiling. “Kriff kriff _kriff_ Poe please fuuuuccckkk-” His loudness is wreaking havoc on Poe’s own arousal- if he were capable of coming just from hearing Armitage’s cries he would. As it is he hangs on as Armitage comes down his throat, his own cock throbbing. He comes back up the bed to watch Armitage come back to himself, panting and spent. 

“Good?”

“What. The _kriff_.” Armitage stretches out a hand and Poe takes it, grinning. “How the fuck are you so good at that?”

“Practice.” Poe smirks. 

Armitage smacks him in the pec. “Not what I was asking.”

“Still true though. But-” he parries another attempt at smacking him- “it’s mostly about paying attention. Watch your partner. See how they react.”

The redhead takes a sip of water and rolls over top of him. “I want to try.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to-”

Armitage’s hand grasps his hardness and he breaks off in a groan. “You cannot possibly sleep like this. Let me.”

Who is Poe to argue?

It doesn’t take long, wound up as he is. Save a brief argument over whether or not Armitage should try to swallow (Poe is outvoted, seeing as every time Armitage actually sucks on him Poe loses the ability to speak entirely) Poe gets there quickly, his hands wrapped in fine ginger locks. “Ffffrrruuuckkkk, Armi-” Armitage takes it in his mouth with a look of faint surprise followed by a considering frown.

“Told you,” Poe breathes, collapsing back to the bed. “Go, spit. I won’t be offended.”

Armitage scurries off to the refresher. When he returns he looks a bit embarrassed. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so… warm….”

“I don’t care. Lay down.”

They fall asleep within minutes, Armitage half-draped across Poe’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Permanent Main Character Injury; Explicit Sex (these two tags are blessedly unrelated)
> 
> Gingerpilot Orange Appreciation Day- it counts if Poe is doing the appreciating in an intimate fashion, right?
> 
> Also that the First Order doesn't season their food is canon in my head and no one can convince me otherwise.


	4. The Side You're On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First times, leaving friends behind, and choosing sides.

#### Just About Twelve Years Ago

Following their late-night adventures in tasting each other, the next day is spent refining their technique in other areas. Poe brings them off together in the morning, wrapping his hand across both of their cocks as Armitage bites marks into his chest beside the ring Poe wears there. They don’t remember to eat until the afternoon when both their stomachs are growling enough to distract them from their other activities. 

Armitage orders for himself this time, tea and stew that manages not to make him lose feeling in his mouth. The tea though… his mind almost immediately blanks when he sips it, shooting back to _rain, pouring rain and hiding under the kitchen table while she worked-_

“Are you alright?” Poe is staring at him. Armitage realizes he’s still holding the tea in front of him. 

“Um. Yes, I…. Do you know what this is called?”

Poe arches a brow. “Tarine. It’s pretty common, I’m surprised you don’t have it in your rations. Haven’t you had it before?”

Tarine. He’d seen it on the officer requisition list before, but never bothered. “No- I mean, I haven’t had it recently, but I think I did as a child.” He blinks, sips it again. _A woman’s voice, laughing. “Armi, that’s too bitter for you, don’t you want a bit of sugar in it?”_ “I think… I think my mother used to make it.”

Poe tilts his head, looking at him curiously. “Do you see her much?”

“Ah- no.” No, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Armitage looks away.

“...alright.” Poe eats his own food. He doesn’t seem the sort to press too much, and for that Armitage is extremely grateful. It’s not something he really likes to even think about. No one in the Order does, really, that concept of _family_ … it’s not really something any of them have. Just loyalty and obedience and training, and he really ought to be focusing more on all three- “My mother taught me how to fly,” Poe breaks into his reverie.

“Really?” It's not something he's considered, how parents work outside of the Order when children aren't all sent into training programs. What would his mother have taught him? How to cook, maybe.

He nods. “Yeah. Too small to reach the controls but she had me in an A-wing.”

“Does she still fly with you?”

“She died. When I was little.” _Oh._

“I’m sure she’d be happy with how you turned out.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. You’re quite a good pilot.”

When they return to the room, they drape across each other while arguing over what holovid to watch (Armitage is dismayed to find out how much Republic propaganda is masquerading as rollicking adventure vids- and not one decent depiction of the Empire to be found! Ridiculous). He considers himself the winner of the conflict when he crawls into Poe’s lap and undoes his trousers, as he is thoroughly successful in shutting Poe up _and_ saving himself from watching any vids claiming the Rebellion was a necessity.

It’s interesting- he finds himself almost aching to touch Poe all the time, when he would be disdainfully scornful if any of his own comrades had tried it. Perhaps it’s the lovely way Poe smells, something like wood- fresh cut trees and fuel cells. Perhaps it was the simple ease of knowing this would end, and he’d never see Poe again, and there would be no negotiating, no awkward stares across the hangar. Just… done. 

For some reason the thought also hurts a bit.

But since he wouldn’t see Poe again anyway….

“Being the hotshot pilot you are…” he breathes in Poe’s ear. “If I asked you to fuck me, would you have the supplies for that?”

He feels Poe’s hands tense around him. “Are you sure?”

Armitage gently twists his grip on Poe’s cock, making him groan. “Yes. Stop being so gentle.”

“Gonna have to be a little gentle, unless you plan to get carried back to your shuttle.”

He makes a displeased noise as he traces his teeth over Poe’s shoulder. Armitage had seen a holovid- many holovids, really- it never looked that challenging, and he’d experimented a bit with his own fingers, of course.

Armitage rapidly reconsiders his preconceptions when Poe has him splayed facedown, pressing his second finger inside. “Fuck fuck _fuck_ fuck-“

“Breathe, Armi.” Somewhere along the line of Poe working him open he’d started to call Armitage that, pointing out that Armitage wasn’t the easiest to moan out in the throes of passion. Armitage found that he wasn’t too inclined to protest. “Still okay?”

“Ye-es.” It was good. So very, very good. He felt amazing- taut and burning and just on the right side of pain. Amazing. 

And it gets better. Poe does something inside, and Armitage feels himself light up in gasping pleasure. “Oh- Poe, what-?”

“That is my favorite part, and I am adding terrible sexual education to the list of your people’s sins against you.”

Armitage automatically starts to protest but hardly gets a word in before Poe does it again and he’s moaning and snatching at the sheets for purchase as the sensation ripples through him. 

“Do you want to come like this?” Poe asks huskily in his ear. Armitage doesn’t have words anymore, he only manages a high, breathy keening sound. “That a yes?” Armitage whines, nodding, breathless. “Okay.” 

As far as Armitage can tell he might be turning into a star. Everything is white and bright and exploding-

He returns to the sensations of his own body slowly, aware of the feeling of cool air on his sweat-dampened skin. He inhales. Oh, good. Lungs still work. “Kriff.”

“Yeah.” Poe is next to him, relaxing, arms behind his head. “It can be a little overwhelming.”

“You didn’t- you should-”

“I’m good, Armi.”

That’s not how it’s supposed to work, though. The holovids always show everyone involved getting off, one way or another, so clearly Armitage is doing something wrong if Poe isn’t satisfied-

“You’re overthinking. Quit it.” 

Armitage glares. Poe doesn’t even have his eyes open, how can he possibly tell-

“Still doing it.” He raises his arm to smack Poe in the chest- only Poe’s got his own hand wrapped around it, fingers to Armitage’s pulse. “Should get your blood pressure looked at, Armi.”

“You’re quite insufferable, you know that?”

“It’s been mentioned.”

Armitage unpeels himself from the bed and drifts into the refresher. He hardly recognizes his own face in the mirror, skin pink and eyes warm, naked and unguarded. Tomorrow he’ll have to transform back into the uniform, into the unfeeling sniper. “I need to get back into the wood tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You should drop me off early. They can’t see you.”

“I know.” Armitage strolls back out and clambers onto the bed, straddling Poe with an arched brow. “Armi, I told you, I don’t have to-“

“You don’t.” He grinds his hips down and Poe groans. He’s still hard enough that Armitage can feel him, sliding up against the inside of his thigh. “But I want you to.” He cants down again, smirking when Poe grabs his hips and tosses him to the bed. 

“Alright, fine, but only because you asked nice.”

The feeling is incredible, a burning stretch and a sense of fullness that is just Poe, only Poe, and Poe’s hands everywhere and his voice in Armitage’s ear telling him he’s beautiful-

They both bathe again, after, kissing under the water until they’re too tired and tumble into bed. Neither of them really manage to sleep. Instead they hang on, feeling each other, head on chest and hand in hand. 

In the morning, Poe acquires a speeder. They eat quietly. Armitage wraps their ankles together under the table.

Neither of them talk about it- neither of them talk at all until Armitage has a very sudden, terrifying thought and almost drops his cup of tea. “Oh, for fuck’s sake- ID?” The droid whirs out of sleep mode, rising up to float. “Can you delete everything from your logs following the mission?”

ID chirps an affirmative, but also a warning- solo mission droids are more carefully reviewed post-mission, any data manipulation would be noted. 

“Shit.”

“What?” Poe is watching them with a raised brow, spoon buried in some sort of grain blend. 

Armitage waves him off. “ID, can we command override and save a log change?”

Another affirmative, but alteration to video will still be noticed, the droid whirs with concern- he’s figured out what has his companion so worried. He beeps a query: _hard drive wipe_?

“No, I’m not wiping you, stop that.” Armitage bites his knuckle. Come on, think. 

“Why does he need to be wiped?” Of course Poe speaks binary, he’s a pilot. Dammit- but. Oh. Maybe…

“Poe. Could you take ID with you?”

Poe blinks. “What, back to the Republic? Why, don’t you need him?” ID echoes his question with fervor, the droid equivalent of _excuse me you need me what are you thinking_?

“If I bring him back they’ll see you in his holo logs. It’s… it’s not good. For either of us.” Armitage can always say he was taking advantage of the situation, gaining leverage- but that just means Poe could be pressed later, the First Order coming to blackmail him. No. Armitage won’t have that. Not when Poe was so… kind. “You- ID, you have to go with him, okay? It’s for the best. I’ll… come up with something. I’ll say you got blown up. Just- stay with Poe, okay? He’ll take care of you.”

“Er.” Poe looks at the droid and extends a hand. “If you’re okay with that?”

ID grumbles something regarding Armitage being a traitorous, abandoning bastard, but there isn’t much malice in it, especially when it wraps its spindly legs around Poe’s neck like a shawl and proclaims that at least the pilot has manners.

The speeder they borrow looks like it predates the Clone Wars by half a millenia, but it works, which is all they need. “Are you sure you can fly this?”

Poe almost looks offended. “I can fly anything.”

They part at the edge of the wood. Armitage will still need to walk two hours to reach the clearing his shuttle will land in. “Thank you, Poe. Please take care of ID. And ID?” The droid chitters, floating over to brush a leg over Armitage’s hand. “You take care of him too, okay?”

“Wait-” Poe rummages through his bag, pulls out a small comm and holds it out. “Here. Direct line to me. Supposed to be for emergencies, but…. Let me know when you’re alone, maybe… maybe I’ll see you again.”

Armitage takes it, feels the weight of it in his hand. It feels somehow heavier than it should, like accepting it means… something. “It’s a big galaxy, Poe.”

“I know. But there’s always a chance.” He smiles and revs the engine to the speeder as ID wraps itself back around his shoulders. “See you ‘round, Armi.”

The words sounded sad, even though Armitage tried his best to make them cold, impersonal. “See you.”

***

Poe comms his people on the way back to the hotel and receives a predictable dressing down for both losing his ship and intervening in local criminal turf wars, having told them his surveillance target was killed by a sniper that he then protected from a significant amount of retribution. They still pick him up in a few hours, and he spends the entire ride back getting hassled about a LAAT being the one to get him. “In my defense,” he keeps saying, “I was on the ground. You all know that thing wouldn’t have stood a chance in the air.” He keeps the ID12 hidden in his bag the entire way, until they’re back in his New Republic Navy quarters. “Alright buddy, I’m gonna need you to stay here for a bit while I get some things, okay? I’ve got an idea for how we can disguise you, and I think you’ll like it too- might have some upgrades in it too, okay? Do you like flying?” ID chirps a nervous assent. “Alright, I think this’ll work. Just hide if anyone pokes their head in.”

When Poe comes back he’s got a crate of scrap metal, some welding tools, and a fair-sized heavy metal ball. “Okay, little buddy. I think we can make you a one-of-a-kind wonder. Ready?”

It takes him a month- a month where he throws himself into it to distract him from the fact that he hasn’t heard from Armitage, not once- to discreetly refurbish ID enough to bring him to the shop for the parts he can’t do himself. He feels a bit bad for more or less clipping ID’s wings- the new unit is too heavy to hover- but the droid seems pleased enough when he learns how quickly he can zoom around on the floor. _Much faster!_ he happily chitters at him. 

But A-wings don’t use astromechs, and he can’t leave the droid alone. He promised- they both did. So Poe puts in for a transfer. He’s reassigned to an X-Wing squadron. Less recon. More escorts. And space to bring his “brand new” orange and white BB-8 astromech, freshly loaded with all the data it needs to know X-Wings, along with him. 

But there’s still no word from Armitage.

Poe wavers for another month on whether he should reach out first, and eventually sends a brief message- text only, if the comm had been confiscated he didn’t want Armitage in any trouble. _Hey. Little buddy is safe and happy. You get back okay?_

He doesn’t get a response.

It might’ve been too much to hope for, that his tall, thin, ginger would be able to see him again. Maybe Poe’s too much of a romantic. 

He ends up calling his father. “Hey kiddo. How’s the best pilot in the Republic?”

“Got some news, pop. Gonna be on X-Wings now.”

“Really? They think you’re too fast in those A-Wings? Always told your mother you’d be trouble with those.”

Poe clears his throat. “Yeah. Nothing dangerous, just escort missions. We’re demilitarizing, you know.”

“I know. Damn fool mistake, you ask me. Keep your eyes open, kid.”

“Yeah, pop. Speaking of….” Poe hesitates. He doesn’t want to give too much away, just in case. “Have you ever heard of anyone from the Empire… surviving? People who weren’t killed in the war? I know a few ships escaped, but….”

“I take it you mean other than the planets that surrendered?”

“Yeah, I mean… like people who might think they’re still serving the Empire.”

Kes raises a brow. “Why do you ask?”

He shakes his head. “I met someone on a mission and it was… odd. Lots of Imperial tech, for one.”

“Lots of Imperial tech went on the black market. Officers sold it off to pay their way to planets where they wouldn’t get arrested.”

“No, I mean new tech. Imperial style but recently made.”

“Oh.” Kes thinks. “Well. There were ships that vanished. Some early on, some after Jakku. Could be someone’s still out there that thinks the war’s on.”

“But… why? They lost, the galaxy is peaceful. People are happy. I know there’s always gonna be someone who wants power, but… the Empire? Again? Why would anyone still think that’s a good idea?”

“Empire said the same thing about the Rebellion, son. All depends on how you think the galaxy is meant to be run, and there’s always going to be someone who thinks it’s going the wrong way.”

_But I don’t want Armitage to be one of them._

His squadmates notice. Poe’s quiet, he’s a bit reserved, he’s not banging half the maintenance crew, which according to his reputation alone is worrying. He only really feels happy when he’s flying, but even that’s getting a bit boring, escorting minor politician after minor politician to dismal planets at the edge of Republic space. 

He’s so bored, in fact, that he’s almost asleep while flying when he hears his private comm ping and in snapping awake nearly smacks into the hyperdrive controls by accident. _Him?_ BB-8 asks. “I hope so, buddy.” Poe opens the comm. It’s just coordinates, a small moon by a gas giant, and a date. Two days from now. Poe studies his schedule- the politician he’s escorting will still be on planet, they’re technically on shore leave… should be enough time to pop a few systems over. He comms Armitage back. _Where specifically?_ “Two days, BB. You excited to see him?” BB beeps happily.

The location Armitage gives him is, oddly, a cantina. Poe hadn’t take him for a cantina type. But he doesn’t see any of that distinctive flame-red hair when he walks in, so he goes to the bar and orders a cheap drink while he waits. BB is with the ship- Poe has promised to bring Armitage to him later, but the droid understood the other half of his meaning. _No wish to see your flesh-bits,_ he had whirred, managing to sound slightly disgusted, which wasn’t a tone Poe had previously thought binary could convey.

Poe is sipping his drink, vaguely worrying about what's keeping Armitage, when he feels the hard jab of a blaster in his back. “Come outside without any fuss and this will go easy on you.” Not Armitage’s voice. Had he been found out? Had his people sent someone to grab Poe and see just how much Armitage had told him?

He drains the rest of his cup in one gulp. If he’s going to get dragged off, he’ll fight, and the alcohol will help dull any pain he’s subjected to. Can’t start the fight in here- too many civilians. Blaster fire risks too many bystanders. No, go outside, then turn on this guy.

Of course, once they get outside there’s a second guy. Dammit. He puts his hands up as the first one snatches his blaster and puts it in his own belt. “Alright, what is it you idiots want? Because I don’t carry spice and my pilot’s license is fully up to date-“

He’s interrupted by the hard butt of a blaster smacking into his mouth. “Shut it. We’re only interested in the bounty.”

Poe nearly stumbled, catching his foot on a stone as they shoved him toward the edge of the little town. “Bounty? What kriffing bounty?”

One of them laughed. “The one on your head, fool. Here-“ He pulls out a datapad and scrolls to a message. Target: Poe- a pilot, likely arriving in an A-wing, dark hair, tan, nice ass.

He arched a brow. “Nice ass? I think you guys got played-“

The bolts came out of nowhere, two fired in rapid succession that flew straight through each of the bounty hunters’ skulls. Poe put his hands up out of instinct, shielding his face before he realizes two very important things- one, the shots did not continue after the first two, and two, he happens to know a remarkably skilled sniper.

“Armitage?!” Poe pulls his blaster back off the bounty hunter who’d stolen it and holds it at his hip, peering into the dark beyond the town line. He sees a brief glint of red light and he reaches for his comm, glaring. “Armitage, I swear to everything holy if you did that just to show off-” he pauses, considering, glancing over the two bodies and their fallen datapad. “Hang on, did you just use me as bait?”

“Er. No?” The sound of Armitage’s voice yanks hard at Poe’s heart, but he’s still pissed even if he also wants to run over and kiss him until it hurts.

“I don’t believe you, and I will be getting you back for that. Are you coming back to the cantina?”

“You should come out here. I’ve got something set up.” Poe works his jaw- that blow had hurt. Part of him still worries this is an awful idea. Armitage is some sort of new Imperial, whether or not he admits it, and that was… everything about that is terrible. “Please?” Armitage’s voice is reedy in the comm- is he nervous?

Poe’s heart swells. Maybe, maybe he could still get Armitage to see, if he doesn’t chicken out on discussing politics this time. He just has to remember not to spend the whole time in bed. That’s doable. Probably. “I’m coming.” 

***

Armitage paces around his makeshift campsite, ensuring for approximately the thirtieth time that he has everything. He’s made a- holovids and a very distant set of childhood memories have informed him this is called a “picnic”- on a large blanket he liberated from the stormtrooper barracks. He met his father’s new pet project there, a massive warrior named Phasma who’s meant to whip the troopers into shape. Armitage wasn’t expecting to like her- he really loathes Cardinal, his father’s previous favored child- but Phasma has a keen mind. She’s a survivor, above all else, including loyalty. It’s nice to meet someone who has priorities above licking his father’s boots.

Poe arrives on an old speeder that Armitage frowns at. “Did you steal that?”

“Really? You killed two men in front of me and you’re worried about theft?”

Armitage frowns more. Those shots were both impressive and precise! Poe should be praising him. The entire scenario had been calculated for maximum effect, all of his research indicates that Poe should be at minimum appreciative of his skill. “They were my targets.”

Poe sighs. “Yes, I inferred that. Why was I _their_ target?”

“Well, two reasons- those two managed to keep their faces off the grid so if I saw them with you I’d know I had the right men for sure; and two… I thought you would find it fun?”

“I- okay, I understand the first point- but why would I think having blasters pointed at me is fun?”

Armitage shrugs. “You’re a pilot. All you do is take your life in your hands every time you fly, I thought you might like a change in risk.” Poe rubs his jaw, frowning, and Armitage takes the opportunity to point out his spread. ”Plus, I’ve made you a reward for helping me out, see?” He hadn’t yet convinced anyone in the Order to give him anything other than ration bars, but he had secured a credit line for this mission under the guise of needing funds to sit in the cantina and identify the correct targets. He’d used it get a decent spread- bread, hard meat, cheese, and a local wine. 

Poe blinks at it, a grin slowly rising to his lips. “This is… do you have a romantic streak, Armitage?” 

It’s fascinating how fast he moves from irritated to playful. Armitage can’t help but be pleased- he can’t resist that stupid grin anyway. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Poe smirks. “Alright, if you say so.”

After the dinner, Armitage leads him up to the shuttle- a basic dual-seater with a single berth. “I don’t have a droid this time, so no worries about that.”

“No replacements available?”

“No… my….” Armitage debates how much to tell Poe, then decides it doesn’t matter how much he knows on this subject. “My father came to inspect my unit. He said I ought to do some missions without one, just to prove I can.”

“Oh. He has a lot of faith in your skills?”

“He may be hoping I die without supervision. This just happens to be an easy way to achieve it. Or, it would be, if I was less competent.”

Poe’s face twitches in concern. “Oh…”

“Nothing to worry about. I’ll… come up with some way to deal with him.” _Have to kill him at some point_ , is what he actually means. His lips turn up in a semblance of a smile- he really shouldn’t be thinking too much about his father, not when he wants Poe to- “Come on, here.” He spins back and grabs Poe by the jacket. “I have quite the list of things I want to do with you.” 

Poe strokes his finger's over Armitage's lips. “Slow your engines, Armi. Why did you wait so long to contact me? I thought you might've gotten locked up- or event killed, you know.”

Armitage runs his hands over Poe’s waist. “I had to hide the comm for a while. I got in touch as soon as I thought it was secure to do so.” A thought suddenly occurs to him, and his pale blue eyes snap up. “How’s ID? Were you able to hide him?”

“Good- he’s here, actually. I loaded him into an astromech body- I’m assigned X-Wings now, so he can come with me wherever I go.”

It’s ludicrous how relieved he feels over the welfare of a droid, of all things. But ID was… a friend. Maybe his first real friend. Even if he wasn’t supposed to be programmed to have feelings. “Good. Can I see him?”

“Of course. But maybe… after….”

Armitage nods and presses his lips against Poe’s.

#### Present Day

Hux is a shell of himself. He barely eats, barely speaks- he is sleeping, though Poe isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be sleeping quite as much as he is. Poe’s offered, but Hux won’t share Poe’s bed- after the gurney went back to medbay he switched to the couch and a thin blanket. Poe would do anything to just hold him for a bit again- Hux hasn’t let him, not since he realized about his leg, he’s always, somehow, just out of reach. And Poe doesn’t have the heart to force him to do anything, so he just leaves him locked safely in his quarters, usually with BB-8 keeping a quiet eye on him. BB tried to cheer him up the first few days, showing off all the tricks he knew, but the most he got was a sad half-smile. Poe’s been trying to think of what he can do that will help him- but he’s just not sure. The med bay did issue him a basic prosthetic so he can get around, but Hux hasn’t really tried it out much- he tries to get it on in the mornings before he thinks Poe is awake. Doesn’t want him to see it. He doesn’t cope with things like other people Poe knows- he closes off far more, won’t let anyone in. Maybe- maybe some sort of project….

Connix leans through the door. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

They have the broadcast pulled up on the bridge on the main screen. The woman speaking is identified as Major Jesmyn Hask, a pretty blonde with bland, pleasing features, like a newsvid correspondent. “And while the Resistance continues their campaign of aggression and terror against worlds seeking only safety and strength, know that the First Order will continue to be there to protect you, and you can help. Right now, we are accepting applicants to our defense training programs where we mold the next generation of galactic heroes. Send your children to us, and help ensure a safe, stable future.”

“The First Order would also like it to be know that arrest warrants have been issued for the following persons, all of whom have been revealed to be weak traitors unworthy of the ranks that they held. Any loyal persons apprehending these traitors may receive a sufficient allotment of credits in compensation, whether or not the returned target is living.” The picture changed to an array of fifteen people, two rows of seven with Hux’s face alone at the top. “Armitage Hux is believed dead, but if encountered should be considered quite dangerous and, for the safety of all involved, it is highly recommended that he be shot on sight.”

The woman’s face returns, still pleasantly smiling. “If you have any information on these targets, please direct it to-“

Someone pauses it. Poe stares at the frozen image of the woman’s face as she finishes speaking and realizes his mouth is hanging open. The rest of the bridge seems equally shocked, muttering amongst themselves. Brazen, that’s for damn sure. “Well, I suppose they found a new mouthpiece. Who is still falling for this shit that they’re sending this to?”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I kind of liked Hux’s bullshit propaganda vids better,” Connix mutters. “At least he was upfront about being an asshole.”

“It’s because I knew I was an asshole.” 

Poe’s head snaps around. Hux is leaning in the doorway, a plain medbay-issued cane in his hand and BB-8 rolling around his feet. “I thought I locked you in?”

“I was watching the newsfeeds. BB let me out.” 

Poe levels a glare at BB-8, who chitters back. _Self=helpArmitage, Armitage=useful!_

“Quite.” Hux knocks a lock of stray hair out of his eyes, limping forward. Poe hadn’t realized how long his hair’s been getting- it’s creeping past his ears now, and if he doesn’t stop it it’ll get down to his shoulders in no time. “Let me make a counterstatement.”

“Why? Won’t you just be proving to them that you defected?”

“Yes.” Hux’s eyes are angry, but it’s also the most life Poe has seen in them in weeks. “That’s the point. If _I_ can defect- anyone can.”

Poe gets permission to run with it from Leia- she’s skeptical, but even she can see how pissed Hux is, and they both know he’s an excellent speaker. Connix helps acquire some clothes for him so he’s recognizable but more overtly Resistance- green and white, the badge sewn onto his breast. “It looks nice with his hair,” she offers.

“He’s growing on you,” Poe mutters, hiding a grin.

“He’s… not quite what I expected.” She shoots Poe a look. “I can sort of see it.”

“What?”

“Why you like him.”

Hux gets someone to paint the Resistance logo on a wall for him to sit in front of while he arranges the camera equipment. They don’t have much but he seems to know what he’s doing with it, all angles and lighting and dramatic effect. Poe watches him sort of shift personas as he reviews the little speech he’s written, turning into the version of himself that was the face of the First Order for years. “Ready?”

Those chilly pale eyes look a bit warmer when they flick up to him. “Start it.” Hux takes a breath. “Hello. Many of you might recognize me as General Hux of the First Order. That’s not who I am coming to you as today. I’m not a General any longer, just Armitage Hux. Now of the Resistance.”

“The First Order has been making you promises. The same promises it made to me, and to everyone I once served with. Most of them even believe that what they are saying is true.”

“They promise order. They promise strength. They promise stability. But what have they done to prove it? They’ve stolen your children, fed them to a program that turns out soldiers barely allotted food rations and treats them like fodder. They’ve ripped away your credits for use in building more and more ships while telling you it is for the protection of lands you can’t afford to sow. At the slightest hint of difference, disloyalty, or disagreement with their leadership they enforce their word with carnage and destruction.”

“The Resistance saw that, even when the rest of us didn’t want to admit it was happening. They saw it and fought against it, tooth and nail and claw. And they will continue to fight, continue to grow, because they’re _right._ ”

“I know it’s difficult to acknowledge when you’ve been in the wrong. I have been myself, far more and for far greater things than I can ever be forgiven for. Which is why I am striving, now, to be of service to the right side. It won’t wipe out my own black marks. But it is the right thing to do.”

“No one here will make you fight. We won’t conscript your children, or crush your planets.”

“But if you are out there, listening to this, take a very close look around you and ask- who is fighting for _me_?”

“Then ask- what can I do to help?”

Poe stares blankly for a second before he realizes he’s meant to cut the feed. As soon as he does, Hux relaxes, leaning against the wall and rubbing at the place where his prosthetic meets his leg. “Was that alright?”

Connix turns away to wipe a tear, and Poe blinks a bit and swallows before he can speak. “Yeah. I think that was pretty damn good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author is aware that this is probably not how droids work, but go with me on this. :)


	5. The Cracks in the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On one side, slow progress; on the other, slow deterioration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings in the end notes.

#### Present Day

There are inquiries to the Resistance almost immediately. The first few are subtle, through contacts known to be sympathetic. But as the stream increases- tech, weapons, money, personnel- Leia has to set up a dedicated channel for it. They’re cautious- any of these could be spies or saboteurs. When they have to, they overcompensate on the firepower for meetups, rotating which frigates attend. Rose has cracked the hyperdrive tracking system well enough that if any Star Destroyers pop in, she can scramble their own efforts or follow them home- more than one First Order base is outed this way before they realize what she’s up to. Her assignment has been moved to Poe’s ship to keep it up, since Leia has specifically tasked him with taking the majority of the “recruitment effort” calls.

Hux has only loosely been keeping track of this. He’s been allowed certain leniencies since his broadcast, which he judges to correlate with its success. He spends much of his time in a locked transparisteel room within a larger machine shop, designing- he’s not allowed to have any real materials (he's only allotted enough for small-scale modeling) or access to the holonet, and he doesn’t blame them for that- but he passes his plans to Rose and she mocks up the ones she deems useful, or merges them with the parts he’s not as familiar with, like X-Wing layouts. She had been very uneasy about working with him, and he’d heard her arguing with Poe about it, but Poe was adamant that they were the two best engineers in the fleet and their minds were best applied while collaborating. 

“It’s ten microns off.”

“I told you to use the heavier weight!”

“And I told you we don’t have enough to apply it fleet-wide!”

Of course, collaborating for them mostly meant arguing.

He often works late, alone, after Rose has gone off to whatever passed for a social life on the ship. Hux isn’t used to having one and it’s not like he can just traipse off into the mess hall, so he does what he’s always done- work more. He’s tinkering with a design for improved starfighter missiles when the shop door slides open and BB-8’s telltale whir announces Poe’s arrival. “Dameron,” Hux drawls. They might be sharing a room, but Hux is reluctant to do much more than that- not when so many of the terrible things Poe has experienced have been his fault. He’s getting used to telling Poe to go on without him when he comes to let Hux out of his supposedly friendly cage, sometimes sleeping on the workbench without going back to Poe’s quarters at all. “What can I do for you?” His eyes rise when he realizes there’s a second set of footsteps. It’s Rose, hiding something on a cart behind her back.

“We’ve, uh, got you something.” Hux’s eyes narrow. Poe is being remarkably suspicious- though he never was good at subtlety. “I- I hope you like it.” 

Rose pulls the cart around. There’s a wide variety of materials and parts, mostly some sort of high-end plasteel in a shimmering dark near-black. Hux blinks. “It looks like… water.” He looks up at Poe, feeling like this means… something more. He looks over the supplies again. Computer chips, rotary joints, thin medical-grade wiring- oh. There’s suddenly an unexpected heat in his eyes as he realizes what it is. What it could be.

“Yeah, that’s- uh, we looked up what the ocean on Arkanis looked like, so, um…”

“It can match the weight of your biological leg,” Rose jumps in, saving Poe from whatever inarticulate direction he was heading in. “But I can get you something else if you don’t like anything.” She pauses, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I’m sorry for the time I bit you.”

“Don’t be,” Hux says, taking the parts reverently and sitting to spread them out across his work bench, inventorying. “I’m sure if I had bit a few people when I was your age I would’ve have been much happier for it.” He’s been avoiding looking at his medbay-standard white plasteel basic leg too much- the view of it is jarring, like a too-human droid, and the feel of it is honestly a little unsettling. The gait just off, the weight an endless reminder of _difference_. Nothing about it felt like _him_. But this- the dark water look wasn’t meant to play at being flesh, it didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t… somehow, that felt better, more natural.

He picks up a ball set in a rotating coil, testing the spring of it and quirking a brow at Rose. “An improved version of the knee?”

“Mmmhm- the computer chips on the basic model aren’t really sensitive enough, so I made a few new ones. Squeeze it a bit- there, now we might want to tweak your shock absorption if you plan on doing any running-“ Hux is sure Poe doesn’t mean for him to notice when he leaves, letting Rose do what she’s best at while he slips off through the door, BB-8 at his heels.

Hux notices.

When he returns to Poe’s quarters, a new version of his leg halfway drafted and a few additional parts requisitioned from Rose, he’s surprised to find Poe still awake and in bed with a datapad. “…Hello.”

“Hey.”

They stare at each other. “You’re up late.”

“Yeah. Mapping out another meeting for tomorrow. I think I’ll want you around for this one.”

Hux arches a brow. “Battle tactics?”

“Defectors. Supposedly. Could always be a trap. Said they were looking for you.” 

_Huh._ “Anyone I know?”

“No names.”

“Sounds like a trap.” Hux shrugs and pulls off his shirt, finding his nightshirt where he left it on the couch. “But you’re going to meet them anyway, I’m sure.”

“Damn straight.” Poe’s eyes are on him, Hux can feel it even though he’s looking away. “Hugs?” The glare is snapped out before Hux can even acknowledge that Poe successfully baited him into looking over. “Come to bed?”

He freezes. Poe certainly can’t- not after all this time, after all Hux has done-

“Armitage.” His heart stalls. “Come to bed.”

His legs- legs, yes, two, it feels like two- are moving of their own accord, setting him down on the edge where he can still flee if he has to, back to the couch- “Your crew- it’s not- they’ll think-“

“So what.” Poe stretches out a hand, and Armitage doesn’t flinch when it meets his arm, fingers feather-light. “So what. Lie down with me.” The hand wrapping about his arm is a lifeline, tipping him over into sheets warmed with the lingering scent of wood. Strong arms wrap him, pulling his forehead against Poe’s inviting chest. “I want you to stay.”

There’s a raw pain rising in his throat that Armitage fights to keep from turning into a sob. “Why?”

“You were all I ever wanted, Armi. I don’t know how else to show you I mean it, but- stay. Stay with me.”

Armitage breathes, burrowing his face in closer, willing himself not to cry. He only manages to speak with a single hoarse exhale. “Alright.”

Poe wraps around him and pulls him under the sheets, holding him close. He doesn’t fall asleep, really- his relationship with sleep has been strained for years, and a new bed with another person in it- a person that seems intent on squeezing him every time he considers moving- doesn’t help. But he still feels more relaxed and rested than he has in a very, very long time. It’s… safe. He feels safe. 

"Why Arkanis?" he breathes in a whisper after a while, not sure if Poe is even still awake.

"Hmm?"

"The leg's plasteel- you said it's meant to be the oceans on Arkanis. Why?"

Poe shifts again, his lips brushing over Armitage's shoulder. "So it feels like home."

The following day he waits with Poe in the hanger to greet the shuttle of defectors. He doesn’t need the cane anymore but he’s carrying it anyway- it seems no one approves of him carrying a blaster or a blade so this is the closest he can come to being armed, and he doesn’t intend to run away from any combat without clocking someone with it. 

Yet he nearly drops it entirely when the first person to step out of the shuttle is Mitaka. “Dopheld?” 

Mitaka looks a bit jarred by the use of his first name, but then smiles. “Sir. We heard you were here, so….” Lusica steps out after him with her hair down and looking terribly young, the others peering from the shuttle bay door in various states of disarrayed uniforms.

“I thought for certain you’d go to the old bases or the _Retribution_ -“ Armitage strides over, feeling the sudden and disquieting urge to _hug_ the dark haired young man- he settles for putting his hands on Dopheld’s shoulders. “However did you decide to come _here_?”

“You said to find someone we could trust.” The others gather around them, a small sea of the starkly dressed amongst the louder riot of orange and white that many in the hanger favor. “That’s only ever really been you, sir.”

#### Just About Ten Years Ago

They go on- months stretch into a year, then two, of clandestine meetings and hotels and stolen moments and never quite managing to really discuss what they’re doing, lurking on two sides of a conflict that’s clearing coming. But eventually things fray, as they always do. Armitage has been expecting it. Nothing in his life that’s good can last.

He’s promoted and assigned to manage a stealth incursion team, typically running cover for them from afar but occasionally sniping with one or two of them on support. The team doesn’t rush to include him in their social entertainments- no, not a Hux, and particularly not a Hux that is also their superior officer. No matter what Armitage did there were always some who thought he had his position just because _daddy said_. Of the lot of them, the only one who makes an effort is a woman assigned out of the stormtrooper program. Damira is older than him, but not by much, her dark hair usually pulled back into a bun, very steady and sure and violently loyal- she has a younger brother in the officer training program and thinks especially highly of anyone with an officer’s rank, nevermind how they got there. Armitage admittedly finds her devotion a bit endearing. She becomes his regular spotter when he needs one, and she doesn’t even seem to mind when he slips off to other engagements before their return shuttle arrives. Once, she even accidentally meets Poe- well, perhaps not “meets” so much as spies him bare-arsed and thrusting in Hux’s bed- fortunately that meant he wasn’t in his Republic uniform, otherwise that could have gone very poorly. She just laughs and tells them to have fun and heads off to the cantina. They don’t mention it outside of missions, and Armitage never begrudges her whatever entertainments she wants to occupy herself with, even when he walks in on her and what looks like at least three Twi-leks all rolling about in a refresher. _All those head… tentacles. Deeply horrifying._

But that’s before they’re assigned a mission to Akiva.

For this target, he’s only been allotted a spotter- it’s all he should need. The spot is somewhat pretty, really, or it would be if it wasn’t raining on Akiva nearly all the time, but they had to abseil down the side of a cliff to get into position as the use of a shuttle would have been too obvious, and Armitage’s muscles are screaming. The pickup isn’t scheduled for two days, so the Order’s clandestine shuttle won’t be easily linked to the assassination- Armitage has already let Poe know to meet him in the nearest town and dress like a local. Dami will no doubt be picking up her own entertainment as well- fortunately their tastes do not overlap so he doesn’t have to worry about her ever looking too closely at Poe if she happens to see him and realizing that the last time hadn’t been a casual, one-time affair.

Her ID12 droid- she calls it Twell- hovers low to the ground nearby, serving as a secondary watch and keeping an eye- or several antennae- on nearby heat signatures and comm traffic. It’s pouring. Armitage pointedly does not think about how much Akiva reminds him of Arkanis. Dami whispers, counting down the steps until he’ll be visible through the windows according to his heat signature. Armitage exhales. 

He lines up the shot. 

“Hold,” Dami breathes. Armitage frowns down the scope. He can see what gave her pause- the target is more or less looking right at them, and a flicker of blue shielding indicates he’s expecting them. The man is smirking, prepared to deflect his shot. 

Then a violent noise to their left signals the arrival of a large contingent of armed defenders bursting out from a panel of camouflage along the far side of the cliff. “Pull back,” Armitage breathes. They’re going to have to make a run for it. Kriffing hells.

“Who the fuck gave us this shitty intel?” Dami growls as she starts to jog. “Maybe ten bodyguards, it said- that is a full fucking battalion!” 

She’s right. Someone fucked them. But that’s a problem for when they get back- if they get back. They need cover and fast- taking the ropes back up is just asking for a blaster bolt to the back. Armitage isn’t the physical specimen Dami is, she’s got a career ahead of her in special ops if she plays her cards right. 

“Rock formation! Cave!” Dami calls from several paces ahead. He can see it, a jut of rock that can at least give them a bit of cover, maybe more depending on how far into the cliffside it goes. He leans into a sprint, trying to catch up. The whir of the speeders is obvious behind him. He’s fucked. Royally fucked. Dami is much faster, but when she gets to the rocks just outside the opening she drops to a knee and turns back, her own assault rifle in hand. Several carefully aimed shots fly past Armitage and he can hear the screech of metal as one speeder spins out into another. 

He gets past Dami ducks behind the shield Twell is projecting as he pulls his pistol. ID detaches and joins the other droid, making a thicker shield wall for them to shoot over. “Do you have our emergency comm?” It’s their method of direct contact with their command ship, regardless of the distance- but using one will be obvious to anyone who happens to be listening to the frequency. The exact opposite of subtle.

She nods. “Evac?”

It’s not the best course of action- the Order frowns a great deal on having their name tossed about on missions like this, and sending an emergency shuttle is bound to attract attention, especially since this is a Republic world. Still. Armitage isn’t exactly looking to die. “I think we’ll have to. If there’s no exit from this cave there’s no way we can make the pickup.”

Dami pulls the comm from their bag and inserts it into Twell- the droid has the best chance of boosting the signal. “Twell, can you get a signal from here?” The droid chirps a negative. Too much interference. “Okay, go up, we’ll cover you.”

Twell pulls back by the rocks and begins its ascent, hovering up the cliff wall. It’s not fast, the ID models are designed to help with infiltration and stealth, not direct combat. Armitage and Dami do their best to pick off anyone targeting it. “Oh fuck.” Armitage follows the line of Dami’s vision- there’s a rocket launcher. Firing.

He feels an impact of something too soft to be shrapnel, yet still firm and heavy- Dami has leapt across him, a shielding layer between him and the rocket. There’s an explosion as it hits the rock full force. Something on his face is wet, it’s- oh. The back of Dami’s head has a large piece of shrapnel through it. 

Her hand crosses his cheek. She’s smiling. “You alright… sir?”

She’s gone even as the words leave her lips, sliding to the ground, eyes vacant and empty but still open.

Armitage can’t think. He hears another round of blasters firing and sees Twell fall in a heap of smoldering, singed metal, rolling and screeching her dismay as she spies Dami. He turns and runs into the dark behind some of the rocks, letting his slim frame slip farther and farther back until they can’t get a direct shot. He rifles through his pockets. If he’s lucky maybe he stowed a grenade- oh. One of his pockets contains a familiar weight- he’s been carrying it with him everywhere, just in case.

He fires off a message to Poe. _URGENT- under fire._ The coordinates are rough, but hopefully Poe can find him. He has to hope Poe is already close enough to get it, it’s unlikely these rocks are going to let the signal pass much farther than this system, even with the boosted Republic tech on it. 

But he can’t rely on Poe. Think, come on, think- they have to be drawing closer, there has to be... ah. 

He scrambles forward and grabs the droid override control from Dami’s wrist, ducking and rolling as they see him and open fire. “Apologies, Twell.” He punches in Dami’s access code- he’s seen her enter it enough that he’s memorized it along with the fond smile she always had when she did it, thinking of her little brother back in the academy. Droid account DMITAKA-12, passcode D0PD0P. Engage self-destruct. He hears a sad whir from outside the cave- Twell knows, of course she does, she’s directly tied to the override, but she agrees. _Best choice, friendHux._ He feels his heart pull against his ribs.

The force- guards, mercenaries, whatever they are- gets just past the droid when he taps “Affirmative” and they’re blown apart, scattering down the rock of the cave entry. Armitage scurries back, hoping that enough of the rock has come down that they can’t get through. Of course, that may also mean he’s stuck here. And there’s no guarantee that Poe received his message. He’ll just have to force his way through the cave- good thing he’s thin, the passage is tight but there is a way through, he can just barely feel it in the dark. _Squeeze, come on._

Just a bit more… and a bit more….

***

It takes Poe three hours to get there after he gets the transmission, flying as fast as he can, legs almost vibrating with nervous anticipation because he just can’t quit get there _fast enough_. BB-8 is encouraging but also irritated at the effect it’s having on the X-Wing, which is shuddering at the top of its capability. There are newer, improved models now, far faster, and dammit he is going to _get one_ when he gets back, no more outdated Rebellion-era tech. 

Someone is going to ask, this time, where the hell he’s gone. Going to look through his flight logs and see he fucked off to Akiva. He’s sure of it. Poe hadn’t been subtle about leaving. Hell, he might even end up in holding if someone realizes most of his discreet misuse of X-Wing fuel corresponds with deaths. 

They swoop down through the clouds into the pouring rain over a canyon. He can’t remember when he last flew through so much rain. “Alright, BB, where am I looking?” 

The coordinates indicate a spot of high ground within the canyon, a nice flat viewpoint overlooking some sort of tower structure in the valley. “Well, that was probably where he was shooting….” The obvious vantage point is a mess of debris and carnage- a section of the cliff wall has come down- but it seems any bodies have been taken away. “Any heat signatures?”

_Tower structure- several._

“Anyone else?”

_Faint reading inside cliff._

“Inside?” Okay- okay, that probably meant a cave system. Not exactly something he can fly right into. “BB, can you access local records for any maps of this area focusing on caves?”

Hours later, they’ve narrowed down a probable route to get to the faint signature and parked the X-Wing on a narrow ledge. “BB, you stay here and keep an eye out alright?” Poe draws his blaster and a glowrod and marches through a crack in the cliff into the dark. The cave is winding, but the map BB acquired said it should open out into a wide cavern not terribly far in, if he can follow it correctly. Armitage’s signature- or what he hopes very much is Armitage’s signature- is in the cavern, pulsing faintly.

He keeps his pace slow and cautious- there’s no telling what sort of creatures are in here, and he knows Akiva has some interesting local fauna.

The cavern is expansive, dimly blue in places that must catch the light from some cracks high above, where the sun can just barely reach inside. He can hear the distant trickle of water and… some sort of shuffling. Hissing? 

He tucks the glowrod into his pocket and creeps forward, finding a ledge he can peer over. There’s another source of the blue light below, a faint iridescence from some sort of plant in the water, reflecting patterns onto the rock. It’s quite pretty, really. Except for the section of the water stained red, and several bodies of some sort of huge rodents floating in it. Poe creeps over the ledge and sneaks toward the bodies, nudging one with his toe. Not a species he knows, and one he’d be glad to keep well away from- their teeth are monstrous, sharp and hooked. 

The water ripples and he draws his blaster just as a far larger figure erupts from the water, driving a monomolecular blade toward his chest. He doesn’t know what makes him parry instead of shoot, but he does, grasping the attacking wrist hard and twisting to roll his assailant into the ground and pin him there. “Armitage!” he shouts into the redhead’s face as his brain catches up. “Fucking hells, it’s me. Drop it!”

Armitage’s expression is feral for a long moment as he tries to break the hold, his eyes not recognizing- but he blinks, and he does, though he doesn’t drop the dagger. He simply stops trying to carve Poe to pieces with it and stares blankly, water dripping off his hair. 

“Poe?”

“Yeah- yeah, it’s me. Are you okay?” Poe lets him go and Armitage shifts away from him, curling in on himself, not letting go of the dagger.

“I- uh-“ 

It’s like he has no idea what to say. “Okay- it’s- you’re okay. We should get outside- I’ve got a ride for you, and BB wants to say hi.” Poe extends a hand. “Come with me?”

Armitage is shaky as they exit the cave, he simply crumbles to the ground near the X-Wing holding on to his dagger and staring back into the dark when Poe gets back in to set up the seat so they can both fit. BB-8 drops out of the astromech hold and rolls over to Armitage, whirring concernedly. Armitage picks up the droid and just sits, holding him in his lap, staring at nothing.

Poe brings him to a hotel on the outskirts of the town they were supposed to meet at, gets him into the refresher- who knows what was in the water in the cavern. He offers to help sponge off Armitage, which he initially seems rather distant and resistant toward- he’s still barely spoken- until something in his eyes shifts. It’s like watching someone solve a puzzle, except the answer seems to make him… Poe isn’t sure what to call it, but it’s something hard. Like he’d just ripped out a part of himself. 

“Armitage?” he asks hesitantly, holding onto a washcloth.

“I think my father tried to kill me.” 

Poe blinks. “Uh- that’s… wow.”

“My spotter is dead. You met her.”

“Oh- oh, Armi, I’m sorry- she was nice. Dami, right?” Poe remembered her. She seemed decent, compared to what he’d been picturing about Armitage’s home. The organization he didn’t talk about. She made him think maybe he was blowing it all out of proportion. Maybe they were all decent, like her and Armitage.

“Dami.” He breathes, takes the cloth and runs it over his face. When he opens his eyes again they’re dark. “Poe.” His voice is lower than usual, a sort of desperate growl. “I need to feel you.” He wraps his hands around Poe’s waist, pulls him close, and kisses his neck twice before he just bites down, hard.

“Fuck- Armi-“ Poe finds himself backed against the wall, Armitage taking him in hand and stroking him up to full hardness easily- Poe has never minded when Armitage gets _bossy_ , even if this time he has the feeling he’s not doing it out of fun so much as some kind of misplaced desperation. “Armi- are you sure you- _fuck_ -“ No, Armitage isn’t going to let him get words out, is he.

He’s only mildly startled when Armitage spins him and presses him to the wall, nudging his legs apart and sliding his hand down. He’s still barely spoken and Poe thinks he ought to be more concerned about that but _kriff_ he’s really going for it and Poe is finding it harder and harder to care when Armitage is spreading him, teeth in his shoulder, and fucking him with a hand wrapped about his cock, pulsing until Poe is shouting his name and coming against the refresher wall.

Armitage comes a few minutes later, hands clawing into Poe’s chest and muffling a scream into his back, water still streaming over both of them. He gets out of the refresher first, quietly leaving Poe to clean himself up. It still doesn’t seem right, but Poe saw how many of those creatures he killed- maybe he just needs to get it out of his system, the tension of all that. 

Poe offers to go find food to bring back to the room and Armitage nods, looking distant. 

When he comes back Armitage is in the same spot on the bed, eyes on the ceiling. BB-8 wheels quietly over to Poe and whirs in a concerned tone. _No movement._

“Dinner, Armi?” Poe lays out the spread and then waits, staring at Hux. “Armi. Food?”

“I think I’m going to have to kill him.”

Poe feels his chest tighten. “Your father?”

“Yes.”

“Armi. That’s… a big step.” And it isn’t the same as a distant head of some criminal he’d been hired- ordered- to kill. Poe had been in dogfights. People died. He’d killed some of them. The galaxy is a dangerous place. But killing a family member… that’s personal on a level that changes people. Hardens them. “Are you sure?”

“When he was only trying to kill me… that isn’t unusual.” _Yes it fucking is,_ Poe bites his tongue to prevent from interjecting. _What the fuck._ “But Dami was a good soldier. She was loyal. And she was collateral damage when she didn’t have to be.”

He sits up, finally, and looks at Poe with hard eyes. “You don’t like it.”

“Of course I don’t like it.” Poe leans on the table. “I’ve- trusted that you know- what’s going on between you two- best. And I haven’t pried, have I?”

“No.”

“I’m just- I’m just asking if you’re sure. That’s all.”

Armitage looks at him, and there’s something cold there Poe’s never seen before. “I’m sure.”

“Then okay.” He takes a breath. “Do you want to- you know, talk about-“

“It’s best if we don’t. If we just-“ Poe nods. _It’s worked for two years, hasn’t it? Guess it took two years to start to hurt._ But they don’t talk about it. “Don’t worry,” Armitage says in an empty tone that does nothing but make Poe worry more, “we’ve still got time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter- sex used as a unhealthy coping mechanism, generally dark feels, the author is rude to reader emotions.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are welcome and loved!


	6. What We Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything breaks, eventually. Sometimes they get put back together.

#### Just About Nine Years Ago

Poe doesn’t want to ask if Armitage has done it yet. _Is your father dead? Did you kill him?_ He seems the same- well, the same as he was after Dami, which was hardly the same at all. It’s been nearly a year- they haven’t been seeing each other as much, and when they do it’s not the friendly, bantering conversations they used to have, teasing over food and falling into bed. These have been rushed- one or two days, and the sex is rougher, but not in a fun way- just hurried, impartial.

Uncaring.

But Poe is still attempting to make an effort. He figures Amitage is just grieving, processing- Poe's certain if he just gives Armitage enough _time_ , he'll come back around. So he keeps setting up dates- proper dates- food and romance- which is where it all goes wrong.

They had been trying to watch a holovid. It was getting harder and harder to find something to agree on, and the vid they picked ended up having a lengthy subplot regarding the destruction of a peaceful world obviously meant to mirror Alderaan.

Poe should have turned it off as soon as he realized, but something in him was a little sick of being the only one making a fucking effort, of always looking out for _Armitage’s_ feelings, for _his_ politics. 

So instead they’re having a screaming match in their hotel room.

“Do you actually listen to the words coming out of your mouth?” Poe holds up a hand to stave off Armitage’s interjection- stars, but the man likes to hear his own voice. He has the charisma to back it too, if only he doesn’t also use it to mention that he thinks _the destruction of Alderaan was a good idea_. “A whole planet! All those lives, gone.”

“It was a deterrent! Better one planet than a whole system. Once people know the consequences, they learn to obey-“

“And what about the systems that saw Alderaan fall and decided they’d rather fight that fall in line? Or did you conveniently forget that a lot of Rebels joined up after they saw how much blood the Empire was willing to shed to hang on to its power?” _Gah._ Poe needs a drink. Or nine. Trying to argue politics with Armitage is giving him a headache. There’s a reason they’d been avoiding it, but now it’s like they both want to fight, even Poe’s caught himself needling at Armitage unnecessarily, baiting him. 

And BB-8 is rolling about between them, as close as he can to yelling at them to stop shouting at each other, totally ignored.

“Well, what about the Death Stars? Plenty died there as well, and I haven’t heard any hand-wringing about that-“

“They were military! They accepted the risks of being there, they weren’t civilians on a planet that was officially loyal to the people that decided blowing it up would be a good way to test a weapon.” Poe puts his head in his hands. Why the hell is he arguing this so hard? He never really cared about politics- Imperial sympathizers were just idiots to be pitied, but somehow he felt like if he can just make Armitage see that he had a kriffing point… it was like he could fix something, some flaw in the universe that put them on opposite sides.

Strangely, Armitage is arguing like it means just as much to him to prove Poe wrong. They go round and round, getting nowhere until Armitage finally lapses into sullen silence and Poe throws up his hands and marches off into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Armitage can keep his terrible politics all by himself on the couch. What the hells is he supposed to do with this, anyway? It had never been a good idea and the whole thing is definitely karked now. 

BB-8 trundles around the bed, settling himself in the corner behind the nightstand, whirring nervously, admonishing Poe for losing his temper.

“I know, buddy, but I don’t know what to say to him anymore. You got any ideas?”

The door opens. “Can I come in?” Armitage looks like he’s working something over in his head. It’s enough for Poe to still try, even with his patience so thoroughly strained. _Please. Please say something rational. Remind me why I- why I’m here._

“You paid for the room this time, so I suppose you can go where you like.”

Armitage nods. He slips in and goes to sit as far away as he possibly can on the bed. “I wanted to ask you about the worlds the New Republic conquered.”

“Liberated, you mean.”

“Conquered. How many were killed on Arkanis, for instance? Do you know?”

Poe shakes his head. “That was an Imperial stronghold… I’d guess they fought back. Lost.”

“It’s where I grew up. My mother was left behind when we evacuated.”

Oh. _Oh._ Shit. Poe chews the inside of his lip. He wants to be sensitive, but this is- he can’t lie, either. “I’m sorry about that, but it’s still not quite the same as imploding an entire planet-“

“Perhaps not just Arkanis. But all the Imperial worlds that refused to kneel? Do you think the Republic killed enough people to even the score? What makes the lives on Alderaan worth more?”

Poe sighs. “Armi, it’s not that simple-“

“Yes it is. You’re saying that a few meant something. I’m saying that none of them meant anything. Not in the long run. Not even my own mother. If _real_ peace can be achieved- lasting peace- wouldn’t any number of planets be worth it?”

“No- Armi, no, that’s my point, peace shouldn’t come at that kind of cost-“

“What if it has to?”

What is there to say to that? Poe sort of shrugs and opens his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Armi. I’m not going to agree with you.”

“I know.” 

There’s a long pause. Poe lets out a breath. “Do you think she’d agree with you?”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

There’s a rise and fall in Armitage’s shoulders as Poe watches him silently breathe. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” They sit in silence for a long time. Armitage gets up first. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Okay.”

There’s a shuffling of fabric in the other room. He turns back at the door, about to say something that he thinks better of. Looking once at Poe, he nods.

And walks away.

BB-8 waits several minutes before he asks. _Coming back?_

Poe shakes his head. “He took his bag, BB.” He flops back against the bed, trying to pretend that it doesn’t feel like he’s had his heart torn out through his ribs.

“It’s probably for the best.”

***

Armitage strides through the darkness, back in his sniper’s uniform, gun at his back. He lifted a handheld comm from the front desk of the hotel- he has several First Order communication codes memorized, and any of them should work to test his theory. He picks a spot out away from the town, a nice clearing where a shuttle can land, and transmits the coordinates, leaving the comm in the center of the field while he climbs a tree and finds a nice sturdy branch to lie on.

His private comm rests heavily in his pocket. Poe… Poe was never going to be a long-term plan. Armitage will have to make some changes when he gets back, and there’s not going to be much room in them for Poe. _Likely better in the long-term, isn’t it, to cut off one’s weaknesses before they do the cutting._

He runs his tongue over his teeth, resisting the urge to _feel_. He doesn’t have the luxury. Someone tried to kill him. _Did_ kill Dami. Emotions are a weakness. 

Only- one, to get it out of his system. That would be alright. _Keep yourself safe_ , he types, sending it off and putting it away before he can see any responses.

The message he transmitted from the non-encrypted comm is a pseudo-distress call, as though he wrote it under the protocols required if his emergency comm unit is compromised. The message indicates that he’s injured and worried about compromised intelligence on the operation. Protocol would dictate a swift exit by a fast, small shuttle. But if he’s right, Brendol would see an opportunity. Armitage just had to test it. One last time, just to know for sure.

As expected, it’s not a shuttle that appears, but a TIE Intercepter. It drops from orbit with a scream through the atmosphere, opening fire when it gets close enough, shredding the grass and bushes of the clearing.

Armitage aims his rifle. This is a fast target, but TIEs aren’t built to last. They’re not even shielded. Stupid, really, but that’s the nature of making a lot of ships for not a lot of credits. 

He exhales.

The bolt flies out and carves the Intercepter at the joint of the wing, sending it spinning into the trees and vanishing into a burst of fire.

Armitage smiles thinly. 

He finds his own way off the planet by comming Phasma’s private line and arranging a pickup. He'd set all this up over the period of months, ensuring he had Phasma on his side and a solid plan in place. She sends a shuttle to bring him to the _Finalizer_ where he promptly puts in a request with the commanding officer to transfer out of special operations and into the strategic command. The Supreme Leader is reportedly impressed by his abilities and ambition and promotes him to Colonel as a part of the transfer. Once he is in place he arranges another meeting with Phasma to confirm the plan they'd put into place as soon as he had confirmed her willingness to help him. 

Brendol Hux dies, painfully and slowly, within months. 

The condolences are many. Armitage can count about three that he thinks were earnestly meant.

The Supreme Leader, as expected, offers Armitage his father’s position on the _Absolution_ , handling the younger segment of the stormtrooper program. It will take time for him to work his way to the _Finalizer_ , but he knows he can manage it. Patience is all he needs. 

His first action as commander, after addressing the program's young trainees and performing the obligatory public appearances, is to request a promising recent graduate of the officer program, the top of his class, Dopheld Mitaka, to serve as a junior officer. 

He’s just as loyal as his sister. 

Despite his promises to himself not to, he checks the comm. There’s three messages. 

_Thank you_ , sent just after he left.

 _Are you alive?_ dated months later.

_Did you do it?_

The last was sent only a week ago. Armitage sighs. He just has to accept it. Poe was nice, for a time. But there’s nothing for him there now.

 _I’m fine. It’s done._ He means his father, but… yes. More than that too. He ought to say it. Poe deserves that.

_I’ve transferred. I won’t be going on away missions anymore._

He can’t stop himself from writing, staring at it like Poe is somehow in it. 

_I enjoyed what we had._

_Thank you._

Colonel Hux puts the Republic comm away in a drawer. It’s safer there, where he can’t see it. He doesn’t check it for messages for months. 

It’s not long before he begins making speeches on behalf of the First Order. Recruitment. Persuasion. He’s good at it.

He only takes out the comm now in his weakest moments, charging it, watching it blink at him as he sips his bitter tea alone.

_No new messages._

***

Poe pours everything he has into flying. It’s easy, if a little painful, to fall back into his old rhythms. Fly, eat, sleep. Flirt, flirt because pilots are cocky and that’s what they _do_ , even if he’s not really bringing anyone back to bed with him. A wink, a little smile, and everyone knows Poe is fine, Poe is on his A-game.

Poe’s the best pilot in the whole damn Republic. 

He’s an easy promotion- he’s always ready to take on _more_ work, _more_ responsibility, anything so he doesn’t have to go _think_. He only takes his shore leave when it’s mandatory. 

The comm he doesn’t want to think about- he asks BB-8 to hold it, it’s the best way as he moves around from squadron to squadron and barrack to barrack to make sure he doesn’t lose it.

He can’t lose it- he has to know it’s _there_ , but he also can’t look at it.

Some people would drink, faced with that.

Poe just flies.

Commander Dameron is trustworthy and steady and sure. No one knows that Poe is a wreck as long as he’s in the air or out in the vast void darkness of space. 

He’s still based on Hosnian Prime when he sees it the first time: flame colored hair and the voice of an angel, urging people to ally with something called the First Order against the lethargy and excesses of the New Republic. Claiming that the New Republic has let worlds starve and people suffer, and order is the best way to peace. He’s called Colonel Hux. Poe wishes he didn’t recognize him at all.

Poe stares as the news reports cover it, unable to leave the pilots common room for fear he’s either going to collapse or hit something. The second he’s confident that he won’t do either of those or throw up, he marches back to his room, eyes dark and furious. “BB. I need it.”

BB chirps at him. _Not equal to good idea._

“I don’t care, I have to- dammit. I have to say something to him.”

_You=sure?_

“Dammit, yes!” 

The containment panel on BB’s sphere pops and ejects the comm even though he whistles a glare. _No need to be rude._

“I’m sorry buddy, I just….”

_Miss him._

“Yeah.”

Poe takes the communicator and sinks onto his bed, thinking. What should he say? What is there that could possibly… help?

Nothing, of course. Nothing will help. Poe's getting furious just thinking about it.

He tries to comm directly- there’s no answer, of course, so he texts. 

_Did I just see you on the holonet as a talking fucking propaganda head? For a group that almost let you die twice, doesn’t feed you, doesn’t let you be fucking happy? What the hell?_

He’s angry, but he’s never been good at impulse control- he sends it before he has time to rethink it. It’s almost a month before he hears something back. 

_I never lied to you about what I was, Poe. We didn’t talk about it, but you knew, just like I knew about you._

_You only lied to yourself._

Poe could scream. He chucks the comm against the wall and hears the casing shatter, plasteel scattering on the floor. He curls in his bed, ignoring the wetness on his pillow, pretending he can’t feel it, doesn’t know it’s source. He can hear BB-8’s gentle whir along the floor, making low concerned noises.

He wakes up in darkness.

“Lights fifty percent,” he croaks in a voice fractured by the sadness and anger he fell asleep with, expecting to see the shattered remnants of his bond with Armitage spread across the floor. 

His breath catches in his throat. 

The comm is gone. 

Any lingering rage he’d felt vanishes in an instant. _No- no, it can’t be gone- can’t- it’s the only way to reach him-_

A distant hum of a droid snaps him out of bed. If it was the cleaning droid, maybe there’s still time- still time to fix it, put it all back together again. He runs down the hall, following the noise-

“BB?”

The little astromech is huddled in a corner with a cluster of its peers- other astromechs and a maintenance droid. The others scatter as he approaches in a blur of beeps and whistles. “BB, what’s this?”

BB wheels himself back and forth, nervous, blocking Poe’s view of something on the ground. _Promise you not=angry?_

“Of course, buddy. What are you doing?”

BB spins aside. The comm is half-rebuilt, poorly in some places, but the core chips seem intact. Poe blinks at it, then picks it up and turns it around, looking over the fractured casing. “You wanted to rebuild it?

_Still=friend._

“Yeah.” Poe sighs. “I suppose he is.”

He fixes up the comm in his spare time until it’s nearly new again, the cracked casing fixed with a bit of black sealant borrowed from starfighter repair, the panel carefully affixed back into place by BB’s maintenance droid friend. 

It takes him a long while to type out his next message.

_Maybe I did lie to myself. But you’re doing the same about what they are._

_You can still leave. Come to me. No one will even need to know where you came from._

_I'll keep you safe._

He’s surprised when he gets a response only minutes later.

_You know I can’t._

A half-hearted grin crosses Poe’s lips.

_That’s the thing, Armi. You always have a choice._

When the alarm goes off for his next shift, Poe makes himself a promise. Every single time he sees one of those damn propaganda videos, he’s going to message Armitage and remind him that he can leave.

He gets a response- a _no_ , but still a response- for every one. 

***

#### Just About a Year Ago 

“Sir?”

Hux looks up from his desk, continuing to mask the feeling he’s about to vomit with an untouchable veneer of hostility. “Yes?”

“We’ve had reports back from Jakku, sir. No bodies with the TIE.” Hux feels his stomach lurch against his heart. “The traitor stormtrooper escaped with the droid and a girl on an impounded light freighter.”

“And the pilot?”

“No sign, sir. There was only indication of one ejection, which we assume to be the stormtrooper. It’s likely the pilot was lost in the sand. The landing party has marked him as deceased.” 

“Ah.” _Marked deceased_. So simple. Just a check in a logbook. 

Mitaka tucks his datapad against his chest. “The Supreme Leader wishes to meet with yourself and Lord Ren, sir.”

Hux’s throat hurts. His lungs burn. Every word said feels like it’s ripping out a piece of him. “Of course. We shall proceed to Starkiller. He can meet us there.”

“Yes sir.”

His shift ends and he lies in bed, fully clothed, unable to sleep, feeling everything and nothing at once. It hurts. _Everywhere._ Why does it hurt?

He hadn’t even really seen Poe in years, not spoken to him in person. 

They were on opposite sides of a war.

Hux had to give the order. Had to. Poe should have been able to outfly it, he can outfly anything, and that makes him furious, because he didn’t, and that means-

_I gave the order to shoot him down._

_I did._

_He’s dead and it’s my fault._

His face is wet, and it shouldn’t be, because General Hux does not cry. And his clothes are too constricting, all of a sudden- he drags himself out of them, sweating and sobbing until he can make it to the refresher with only his jodhpurs on and then he throws up until there’s probably not even a drop of sustenance left in his system. 

Tilted over on the floor, he crawls into the bathing stall, pants still on. He can just reach the on switch from the floor. 

The water makes it hard to tell whether he’s still crying, which is good. He needs to not be crying. He needs to be a General. A General would be celebrating the death of a Resistance hero pilot, not weeping as his body tries to reject everything within it.

He sits there until the water shuts off on its own, the time limit allotted having passed. 

He shivers and waits to feel anything other than pain.

An alarm chimes somewhere within his quarters. Time to awake and proceed with his shift. The actions feel mechanical. Clothing. Hair. He can’t eat anything- he can barely keep down his tea. It feels as though he’s hollow. Entirely empty of every feeling except a dull ache in the center of his chest.

The longer it sits there the more it feels like a sort of rage.

_This wouldn’t have happened if the war would end. If the galaxy would just submit, and let the Order protect them._

Hux can fix that.

“The weapon. It is ready,” he hears himself saying to the Supreme Leader, Ren bristling at his side with eagerness to continue his pursuit of the Jedi he and Snoke remain so obsessed with. 

By the time he gets to the speech the rage is overpowering. It’s throbbing within him.

_I will end this by any means necessary._

“Fire.”

Millions of lives, gone in an instant. He ought to be glad- this is how peace will be won, isn’t it? The sacrifice of a few for the good of the rest, the entire galaxy kneeling at their feet. His feet. It was everything he’d ever hoped for and more, glory and power and proof he was worth something to the Order.

Hux doesn’t feel anything at all.

***

Poe watches the broadcast once he gets back to D’Qar. Over and over. Hux’s face looks... terrifying. _What the hell happened to him?_

He wants to comm him. Wants to ask. But in the end, isn’t this exactly the person Armitage had told him he was? Didn’t Poe know?

Maybe he’d still been deluding himself all these years, and his Armitage is long gone. If he ever existed at all.

But he is absolutely certain Starkiller has to be destroyed.

And Hux is there.

Poe could comm him, of course. Warn him. Tell him to run. But he has no idea if this person- this awful person living in Armitage’s skin- would use it to just run. He might warn the whole base, turn the weapon at every last planet that ever though about supporting the Resistance. 

He can’t risk it. The entire galaxy is at stake.

But if Starkiller must go, and Hux with it- Poe owes it to the version of Armi he thought he knew to be the one that takes the shot.

“This is Black Leader,” he says tonelessly. “All squadrons, prepare your hyperdrives. Remember, when we get there, we locate the target and we unload our missiles. We want this to be fast, before they have time to retaliate.” 

_Make it quick. So it doesn’t hurt._

“Engage drives in five. Four. Three. Two.”

_I’m sorry, Armi._

“Jump.”

***

#### Present Day

“I have an idea.” Poe is giving him that cocky, excited _look_ that Armitage associates with something tactically reckless about to come out of his mouth. He arches a preemptive skeptical brow, setting the plans he’d be sketching down on the caff table.

“Do I want to hear this?”

“Yes. Okay- so- your friends, they’re all bridge officers, right?”

“Friends may be too strong a term but yes, mostly.”

“Are there enough of them to get a star destroyer running?”

Armitage narrows his eyes. “Why?“

Poe bounds over, still looking excited, and puts his hand on Armitage’s knee. “Don’t worry about why yet, just- is that enough to run the bridge?”

“It’d be challenging, but as long as the destroyer isn’t damaged or in combat… yes, probably.” Armitage eyes that hand on his leg. Poe clings in his sleep, of course, but they hadn’t been… affectionate… outside of that. He’s avoided it- Poe is a generous, kind soul, but there must be limits, and Armitage certainly doesn’t deserve his attention. He never did, really.

“Perfect. I think you’ll like this. It’ll be fun.”

“Are you aware that I find your use of the word ‘fun’ alarming?”

“I recall you being quite _fond_ of my sort of fun.” Poe leans forward. Their faces are very close. Very, very close. Armitage feels himself blush. “Armitage.” The voice draws him back and he finds himself looking into Poe’s dark eyes, blinking. “I meant what I said. You’re what I want. You don’t have to keep running away.”

“I’m not-“

“In your head, you are. You’re not as good at hiding your feelings as you think you are.”

He breathes shakily. “Are you sure you want to-“

“Yes,” Poe almost growls it. There’s an almost immediate instinctual response from the inside of Armitage’s trousers. A little keening whine escapes his throat.

Poe is on him in seconds.

Their lips crash together, desperate and needy. Armitage yelps when he feels his shirt tear, Poe is so eager to get him out of it. “Sorry, sorry-“

“Shut up, Poe.”

“Can’t. Been waiting too long to be quiet.” 

They tumble onto the bed, clothes tossed aside and scattered. Armitage hears Poe’s breath hitch when he drags down his pants and finds the opalescent blue of his prosthetic. “You finished it.”

“Mmm. The nerve channels are all up and running.” It took hours of mapping- Armitage designed a program to do it faster, then tweaked the results. 

“You- can feel-?” Poe runs his hand down, the plasteel shimmering beneath him.

“Everywhere I should.”

He shudders as Poe bends and places his lips against it in a soft kiss. “I hope you don’t have plans for the rest of this cycle.”

“The entire cycle? How ambitious, Commander Dameron.”

Poe finishes yanking his pants off and climbs over him, nipping his ear. Armitage shudders. “I plan to reacquaint myself with every single neuron of you. I have a feeling it’s going to take a while.”

Armitage swallows. “I’m sure I can find room in my schedule.”

The first round is fast, despite their best efforts- too long without touch, without each other- and neither of them can hold back. Armitage comes in Poe’s hand, spilling himself over Poe’s chest, panting, and Poe follows a minute later, too undone by how sensitive Armitage has become to the littlest things in the years they’ve been apart.

“You never had anyone else?” he asks softly in the refresher, after.

“Never,” Armitage breathes into his ear. “Just you, always.”

“Me too. Only you, since I met you.”

For a second Armitage doesn’t believe it- Poe is beautiful, he’s a pilot- surely there must have been _someone._

But then he looks in Poe’s eyes, and there’s no doubt at all.

They’re at it for ages, with their initial bursts of over-excitement out of the way: Armitage lavishing over Poe with his tongue, Poe’s fingers finding their way to places that make Armitage writhe and whine with need, whispers on both sides of “come for me, let me see you” with “I missed you” said more in every touch than they’re capable of voicing. 

Breaks pop in for bathing, and water, and slipping to the mess hall for food. Both of them are blushing as they pass the crew already present, Poe occasionally giggling and Armitage reddening more every time. Fortunately not many people are there to witness them making fools of themselves, though Armitage quickly spots the one pair in the room _not_ paying them any mind. “Isn’t that your second?”

Poe looks over. “Connix, yeah- oooh.”

Connix is sitting with Lusica Stynnix, explaining something- it looks tactical, from what Armitage can see- and Lusica is looking at her like she’s the source of all the oxygen on the ship. 

Armitage shakes his head, a small smile curling his lip up. “I suppose we are not in a position to comment.” 

“No, I mean- I’m happy for anyone getting laid on this ship, really. Helps morale.” Poe winks at him and Armitage rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t put that on your recruiting posters.”

They fall back into bed together with touches soft and tender, just kissing for so long that Armitage’s lips almost hurt. It’s as though they can’t part their faces, their eyes locked on to each other, unable to let go. Even when Armitage climbs into Poe’s lap, moaning against Poe’s lips as Poe’s cock slides slowly home within him, they can’t stop just _staring_ , like if they look away for too long the other person will just vanish.

When they’re ostensibly actually ready to sleep, they just lay there looking, one set of hands clasped together, fingers linked.

Poe manages to say it first. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Armitage breathes, and in that moment he knows. He’s known for a while, really, but never quite let himself feel it, never quite admitted it was something he could have. He feels it exploding out of him, brighter than the most powerful nova. “I love you.”

Poe smiles, and Armitage feels whole in places he didn’t know were broken. “I know. I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For added angst, the author recommends reading through Hux's Starkiller section while listening to "Everything You Ever" from Doctor Horrible. 
> 
> Comments always welcome and loved, please tell me about your ~~suffering~~ enjoyment! :)


	7. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some people, home is the vast wildness of space. For some it's a ship. For some it's a person.
> 
> Sometimes it's all three.

#### Just About Six Years Ago

“What the hell is this? She’s the only one pushing for action against this… First Order nonsense.” Poe glares at the holofeed. Rapier Squadron has been moved to Mirrin, and he feels distant now from all the political goings on back on Hosnian Prime. But this is a big one- Leia Organa is being ousted from the Senate, purely because people think her blood might be tainted. “It’s bullshit.”

“I know.” Iolo is in Rapier Squadron with him. It’s a small squadron, just four to protect some insignificant trade lanes. The New Republic barely has a militarized wing anymore- the fleet is more or less for show, its teeth have been so thoroughly blunted. Iolo has gotten entirely desensitized to hearing Poe rant about it- he agrees, but what can they do? The Rapiers have been ordered not to interfere. The New Republic is not at war with the the First Order, and they do not want any open hostilities. Poe’s been resisting the urge to contact Hux about it and ask him what exactly the First Order thinks they’re doing- it’s not like Hux is going to tell him. But it makes him nervous, thinking of Armi- Hux- out there with all of those… new Imperial types. It’s changing him. 

In a lot of ways, Leia’s departure from the watchful eye of the Senate is useful. She has much more freedom to act- she forms a group called the Resistance, in direct opposition to the First Order. The New Republic won’t back it- she’s warmongering, some say. Others call her delusional. No one thinks the First Order is a threat.

Except Poe already knows it is.

Years pass, years of Poe watching and waiting for the other shoe to drop, until one day it does. The Rapiers pick up a distress signal- a freighter. 

When they get there, it’s not pirates that are attacking, after cargo to steal as usual. It’s TIEs. One of Poe’s Rapiers is killed in the skirmish, and their commander on Mirrin won’t do a thing about it. The First Order is, apparently, off limits. 

But Poe isn’t really one to take the death of a squadmate and not act.

He mounts his own reconnaissance mission and finds them. Star Destroyers, TIEs. It’s like every Rebellion holovid he ever watched come to life.

It makes him feel sick. 

When he gets back, he finds Leia Organa wants to meet with him, and she makes him an offer. His own wing, in the Resistance. Full authorization to attack the threat of the First Order directly. 

He accepts. The remaining Rapiers come with him.

It’s a defection, technically. But he can’t serve a force he doesn’t respect, and the New Republic would’ve cut him loose eventually anyway. Decommissioned, scrap the X-Wings to make new non-threatening vessels of diplomacy and peace.

He doesn’t message Hux as much these days. A small part of him holds out hope… but it’s been years. Hux isn’t going to leave. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

***

Hux- General Hux, now- is summoned to the _Finalizer._ He has command, and the very concept thrills him to his bones.

Sadly, he also has a co-commander. 

Kylo Ren is wild and untamed and Hux wonders quite often if Supreme Leader Snoke has stuck them together merely to mitigate Ren’s ability to damage his own flagship. Hux spends more time than he’d like dealing with the damage and trying to protect his own people from outbursts. 

It does not go smoothly.

Both Snoke and Ren, it turns out, are prone to using the Force to fling people around and choke them. Hux himself bears the brunt of this in private, for the most part, at least as it comes from Snoke- Ren isn’t supposed to use his gifts against Hux. That’s Snoke’s prerogative.

It’s miserable. Yet the chance to command, to really effect meaningful change in the galaxy- that would make dealing with any amount of Force-related nonsense worth it.

As time goes on, the Resistance proves to be an even greater thorn in his side than the so-called Master of the Knights of Ren. Daring, fleeting attacks, skirmishes in the trade lanes just outside of Republic control- they shouldn’t be able to vex him so much with so little, but they’re succeeding.

He gets a slightly better idea why one day when Mitaka brings him an intercepted bundle of Resistance propaganda. “It looks like they’re recruiting, sir,” he flips through his datapad, showing the lot to Hux. One picture catches his eye- dark hair, brilliant eyes and a pilot’s suit-

“Send the lot to me, I’ll look through it later.”

“Yes, sir.”

He does look it over later, at some length and in great detail. The likeness is astounding. Poe is beautiful, hopeful… and bearing a Resistance helmet.

He digs out his comm. 

_You defected from the Republic?_

There’s no point in waiting for an immediate reply- neither of them write much anymore. But it makes him anxious, in some deep, intrinsic way. _What if one of those skirmishes was against Poe?_

Poe would make it out, surely- actually, Poe might be the one who keeps picking off his TIEs. He should be upset about that, but he only feels a vague sense of pride.

Hux blames nostalgia and sentiment that he resorts to dropping his jodhpurs and stroking himself while looking over Poe’s picture, biting into his own gloves to muffle the sound as he comes- his room is soundproofed, but he never quite trusts what Ren is able to pick up. He has always been careful not to think of Poe in Ren’s presence. This is simply… getting the thought out of his system. Vigorously. And may be needed a few more times in the coming cycles. 

Just for the safety of his own mind, of course.

There’s a response the next time he looks at his comm: _Why, worried you’re going to shoot me by accident?_

Hux smiles and types back. _Apparently we haven’t managed it yet._ He’s about to put the comm away when he sees a followup arrive.

_It’s a black and orange X-Wing. Custom paint job. If you’re trying, to, you know, not blow me up._

He sighs. _Yes, Dameron, that would be my preference._

***

#### Just About A Year Ago

Starkiller is imploding, and General Hux has to go acquire Kylo Ren, of all people, though he’s reasonably certain the First Order would be far improved if he left the malcontent Force-user behind. He squints out of the window of his shuttle- there are X-Wings blistering through the atmosphere, many of them pulling away from the planet. _Ridiculous._ How dare the Resistance destroy his finest achievement when it could be so useful in ensuring the return of peace to the galaxy? _Why won’t they understand?_

He sees one pass over them, low to the ground, racing past the point where the Falcon is lifting from the ground.

It’s black and orange.

Hux feels his breath catch. His heart leaps into his throat. _No. It can’t be- not after I- he’s gone, they just didn’t find a body-_

“Sir, Lord Ren is just ahead.”

He swallows. “Get him on board and get us out of here before we’re all incinerated.” _Breathe. Breathe, you can do this. Breathe now, think later._ “Pull the medical kit, he may require triage.”

The stormtroopers drag Ren on board, bleeding and half-conscious. He still manages to put one of them into a wall before Hux personally sticks him with a sedative injection that leaves him dazed and eventually unconscious, something which Hux permits himself to feel a distant sense of vindictive pleasure about.

Speeding out of the decaying planet’s orbit, the shuttle executes a short hyperspace jump to avoid the blast radius and lands just beside the _Finalizer._ “Get him to med bay immediately.” Hux snatches the nearest comm. “Peavey- we are to rendezvous with the _Supremacy._ See to it.” 

He marches back to his own quarters in silence, willing the rest of his crew not to speak with him. 

The weight of his New Republic comm lies heavy in his pocket. It was the only thing he took out of his quarters on Starkiller when he went to retrieve Ren. The rest- uniforms and datapads- can all be replaced. His connection to Poe- if that really had been Poe, and he was not in fact hallucinating due to some combination of stim usage and lack of sleep- cannot.

He stares at it for a long time, trying to think of what to say, flipping through reports on his datapad when he just needs to look at something else for a bit. In the end, he settles for _Are you alive? Did you make it?_

Poe write back faster than he would have expected. _Yeah. You evacuated?_

A wretched noise escapes him. It could be a sob. The back of his hand crosses his face, fending off a flood of tears by rubbing at his eyes. _Yes. I’m glad you’re alive._

He falls back onto his bed, overcome by the influx of emotion. He hadn’t even considered the option that Poe might survive, might have yet again found some way out. It’s relief, it’s joy, but there’s also a sort of terrible desperate sadness to it. A longing he knows he can’t fulfill.

_Why did you do it?_

Hux blinks at the questions, his vision still blurry. _Do what?_

_Destroy the Hosnian system._

A million answers flit through his head. _Because I need peace, no matter what. Because I needed to hurt something. Because you were gone and I had nothing else._

But he knows where Poe stands on this. Nothing he can say will make Poe want him again.

What he actually responds with, after several minutes of staring at the ceiling, is: _I had to._

_You know that isn’t true._

He doesn’t hear back from Poe after that, but he does send one more message of his own. _I’m sure you don’t want to speak with me, and I accept this. But our fleet is convening, and we are heading to D’Qar. Please evacuate as fast as you can._

He thinks, he screams it in his own mind, hiding the sobs of in the back of his throat, but he cannot bring himself to type out the words: _I can’t bear to lose you again._

***

The D’Qar evacuation is not going fast enough. Poe has finally told Leia about his… history… with Hux, and the warning he sent- she considered tossing Poe to the brig right there, but based on Hux’s last message they come up with a plan. It’s an idiotic plan, as she keeps pointing out, but it’s still a plan.

Which is how Poe ends up in the dark void of space, facing down a massive fleet of Star Destroyers… alone.

Well. Almost alone.

“This is Commander Poe Dameron of the Republic fleet. I have an urgent communique for General Hugs.” _Come on, Armi, if there’s any of you left in there…._

“This is General Hux of the First Order. The Republic is no more. Your fleet are rebel scum and war criminals. Tell your precious princess there will be no terms, there will be no surrender.”

Poe smiles. _Hey there Armi._ He can still hear Armi’s voice, breathless, half-moaning, close to his ear, justifying the first ridiculous monologue Poe had ever heard out of him. _‘Only when I’m trying to buy time.’_

Now he just had to hope Hux could catch on to the rest of the game. “Hi, I’m holding for General Hugs?”

There’s a brief pause in which Poe holds his breath, then the comm clicks at him. “This is Hux. You and your friends are doomed! We will wipe your filth from the galaxy-“

“Okay, I’ll hold.” He suppresses a giggle as he hears Hux feigning confusion on the other end. “Hux? With an “h”? Skinny guy, kind of pasty?” He’s almost ready- time for a last little reminder for his Armitage, then. “Look, I can’t hold forever. If you reach him, tell him Leia has an urgent message for him… about his mother.” _Think, Armi. There’s still time to leave._ Poe doesn't know if he can forgive him. Not yet. But leaving the Order would sure as hell be a good start.

He hears Hux call to open fire over the channel before they close it- that’s fine, that’s the point here, actually. He can outrun it. 

***

Hux watches in confusion. _What the kriffing hells are you up to, Dameron?_ He follows the trajectory… all the way to his dreadnaught. Which Poe is eviscerating. Single-handedly, despite the odds against him. _Really?! That’s what you needed time for?_ The man is utterly karking insane. And unfortunately that is all the time Hux can offer him.

In the aftermath, he’s certain neither side quite managed what they wanted. He’s lacking a dreadnaught, they’re lacking an entire wing of bombers. He’s prepared to conveniently “forget” about the hyperspace tracking protocol when the Supreme Leader makes contact and promptly slams him into the floor.

_Kriff._

He feels the same low buzzing of his own crushed loathing in his head that he always feels when the Supreme Leader is involved, a need to do whatever he wants out of some warped sense of self-preservation and hating every second. “We have them tied on the end of a string.” The Supreme Leader, of course, never remembers they have technology that can do what the Force cannot. He tries to block out the feeling that this, too, is a betrayal. That he might be condemning Dameron. Again.

But he’d bought Poe all the time he could, hadn’t he? If that wasn’t enough, then…. 

_I don’t know what would be._

The only saving grace is that the pursuit is slow. Hux doesn’t rest- he knows he must look a wreck, but he has to see this through. One way or another. Every time he checks the calculations on the Resistance’s remaining fuel he feels his stress levels spike. It gets worse when the ships begin to fall off. 

_Then I’ll have to order them to shoot him. Again._

He tries to steel himself against it. He’s a general, dammit. Every bit of anger he has that he has to do this _again,_ feel every absurd bit of terror, of longing, of _guilt_ for Poe _again_ , fuels his facade. 

_Just hang on- they must have a plan, someone must have a plan…._

They do, of course. Only someone’s karked it up for them, and now Hux knows it. Everyone knows it.

Which means Hux has to act on it. Whether he wants to or not.

“Fire on the transports.”

***

Poe watches the _Raddus_ jump in a streak of melting white, his eyes pressed to the window.

_My fault._

Destroyers shatter- he can’t count how many from here- that massive flagship he’s sure Hux is on splits in half. 

_My fault._

Some of his companions are happy to see the First Order hit so hard, but at this point… Poe might be tired of death.

All he has left is hanging on to the few lives the Resistance has remaining. However he can. Which means putting aside Poe Dameron, who might be grieving. Who might desperately want to pull the comm he has stored in BB-8 out and find out if Hux is still breathing. Was his bridge hit? Is he out there, floating in space, cold and alone?

What they need, however, is the pilot, that confident, cocky veneer he’s so good at.

He can be the pilot.

It’s not until they’re well clear of Crait- the few of them left, and there are so few now, even though Leia says she has an idea of where to go to replenish their numbers- that he lets himself curl up in the refresher on the _Falcon_ , comm in hand.

_Still out there, Armi?_

He breathes, and waits. It feels like forever.

_I’m here, Dameron._

_That girl may have told you our Supreme Leader is dead. Ren has taken over._

_I don’t think it will be safe to speak anymore, even like this. He can read minds when he wants to. There’s too much risk._

_Good luck, Poe._

Poe will never admit that his face is wet, his eyes red when he writes back.

_Good luck, Armitage._

***

#### Present Day

“For the record, I have a bad feeling about this.” Armitage looks over the sorry figure they had made him into, ragged Resistance clothing and a set of manacles. It’ll be a wonder if he’s even recognizable. 

“I think I agree, Poe, are you sure you’ve thought this out? There’s not a lot of room for error.” Connix is looking askance at her commander under her borrowed First Order officer’s cap, one eyebrow raised. When Poe had laid out his plan to both of them, Rose, and the small contingent of defectors, Mitaka was the first to say he actually agreed with the plan, and now he’s in a bounty hunter’s outfit, carrying a helmet and looking somewhat giddy. Armitage finds his excitement a bit concerning.

“Trust me, we have looked at every option, and as long as our information is right, this should work. And we do have the best possible source of information, don’t we, babe?”

He’d started in on the endearments as soon as Armitage had bedded him, and all protests to their existence seemed to only make him do it more. It would be mildly infuriating, except that Armitage loves the idiot. “Yes, I doubt Peavey’s thought to change the maintenance protocols.”

“Okay, then we just wait for word that Rey and Finn have our wild card distracted, and we’ll be good to go!”

The wild card is Ren, of course. The Jedi girl and her companion have gone out in the Wookie’s ship to make their presence known in a system very far away from the _Finalizer_ , though all of their intelligence says that the Order has split since Peavey’s usurpation into a small faction under Ren’s control and a larger one comprised of former Imperials and their associates. They’re trying to draw Ren out, make sure he doesn’t have impetus to interfere in the plan Poe’s come up with. Armitage has even heard Rey is trying to capture him, bring him back alive to present to Leia. Apparently they think she has a chance of fixing him, unravelling the monster Snoke shaped him into.

Armitage is frankly unsure if he wants Rey to successfully catch him, or kill him. The latter would certainly be safer, but he can sympathize with the idea of… making amends. At least that they want Ren to be capable of it. Armitage isn’t sure he is, but… he understands the urge to try.

They’ve loaded up the stolen Imperial shuttle and are quietly waiting a quick jump away from the spot their intelligence says the Finalizer is still undergoing repairs from its last skirmish. 

“His TIE is here,” the girl’s voice crackles over the comm. “You’re clear.”

“Thanks Rey. Hope you get him.”

“Yeah, me too.” Armitage can hear her sigh as the comms click off.

“Alright- serious faces on, team,” Poe says with a grin. “Let’s go steal a Star Destroyer.”

Armitage can feel his heart pounding as they drop out of hyperspace by the _Finalizer_. The ship could just open fire, wipe them all out at range.

“Connix, you’re up.”

She clears her throat. “Shuttle Bay six, this is Shuttle LX9, originally of the _Fellfire_. We have damaged landing gear and are requesting a repair berth, over.” Rose had helped them alter the shuttle’s transponders to read it as the _Fellfire’s_. Armitage knew they wouldn’t check too deeply, not with the _Fellfire_ destroyed over Crait and so many of the fleet’s smaller ships in tatters between the destroyers still functioning. 

“Shuttle LX9, you are clear to land in repair berth three, over.”

Poe is doing the actual flying, of course, banking them in and following the defector pilot’s instructions about where exactly to land. Like Mitaka, he is also playing the part of a mercenary, masked by his helmet so his face isn’t recognizable. 

They slip off the shuttle to little fanfare, thankfully. Armitage has a cowl up over his hair so he’s less likely to give them away by accident or sudden recognition by some eager officer. Connix appears to be leading their party, she has the highest apparent rank of their purloined Order uniforms, but Mitaka is whispering the directions. Armitage is in the middle, wrists bound- or so it seems- the only one playing himself. Poe and Lusica bring up the rear- they all agreed it was doubtful Lusica would be recognizable if she stayed in the rear, she hadn’t served on the _Finalizer_ long enough to make many acquaintances.

The rest of the defectors are waiting on the shuttle for their signal.

The signal, namely, is total and absolute chaos.

As they draw near the bridge Armitage lets his cowl fall and shakes out his now shoulder-length hair. “Last chance to admit this is a terrible idea?” he mutters quietly.

“Still a great idea, babe. Now keep your head down and try and look helpless.”

Armitage rolls his eyes, but he does drop his head. Primarily so he can hide any wrath that twitches across his face if he sees Peavey…

“Oh, what’s this?” 

…who is, apparently, commander of this shift. _Kriff._ Armitage sneaks a glance up. Peavey's face is scarred, one eye milky. _So my bomb did get you, you karking traitorous bantha fucker. Good._

“Ah, you caught our wayward little… well, I suppose you’re not a General anymore, are you?” Armitage hopes his hiss of disdain is in character for this little charade. Peavey strides over, grasps him by the chin and forces Armitage to look him in the eye. He feels Poe tense behind him, but Armitage can’t be sure whether it’s jealousy or fear that Armitage will snap and kill him before they’re ready. “What do we call you now? Just ‘traitor’?”

“Get karked,” Armitage growls.

Peavey draws back his hand to slap him and Poe catches it. “No, no, my friend,” he says cheerily through his mask and vocoder- everyone agreed that his voice was too recognizable to be left unaltered- “no striking the merchandise until after we get our reward.”

“Reward? Your reward is service to the Order,” Peavey says derisively.

“We were thinking more in credits, actually.” Armitage can hear Poe smiling. 

“Get these two off my bridge.” 

Connix and Lusica make a show of wrangling the ‘bounty hunters’, then flash their eyes at the guarding stormtroopers. “A little help, please?”

As the doors close, securing the stormtroopers in the rest of his team’s- _his team_ , that was an odd thought, that this strange little group of Resistance fighters and Order defectors were _his_ \- capable hands, Armitage lets out an exhale. 

An ill-timed one, as Peavey immediately wraps his hand about his throat. “I think high command is going to want to speak to you about your… defection,” he says the word with a sneer, like even the thought of it is beneath him. “But they’ll only need your tongue intact for that.” 

Armitage twists his wrists like he’s struggling and severs the false bond of the manacles, snapping his fist out and punching Peavey squarely in the solar plexus, forcing the other man to drop his hands from Armitage's throat. He taps a button on one of the fake restraints, triggering a shift in his mechanical leg, a panel that slides out through a deliberately cut hole in his trousers- and sneers at Peavey's stricken face as the canister of gas they’d concealed within it begins to spread. Armitage thrusts his hand into a bottomless pocket on the side of his false leg and reaches all the way into the shimmery blue casing to draw out a mask and his monomolecular dagger, quickly getting the former over his face so he can inhale once more. “You know, Edrison, I thought very hard about whether I would have distinct pleasure of murdering you myself.” He hears the other officers coughing, falling, fighting against he door Poe is holding closed from the outside. The gas won’t kill them, but they will be going to sleep for a bit. And he doesn’t think they’ll like it when they wake up. Peavey sinks and Armitage catches him, holding the dagger to his throat, making it very clear that he has the power to decide what to do here. “The only reason you get to live is because I think it will be far more entertaining to watch Leia Organa break you in half.” He leans closer, as Peavey’s eyes begin to flutter. “I’ve told her you were a junior cadet on the _Devastator_. I think she’ll have quite a lot of questions for someone who served under Vader… especially on the ship that carried her to watch Alderaan be destroyed.”

He lets go as Peavey drops to the floor and strides over to the life support controls to trigger the ventilation system that will pull the gas and send it elsewhere. Once it’s clear he knocks three times on the inside of the door to the bridge so Poe knows it’s clear to enter. They drag in the stormtroopers that had escorted them outside- Lusi had stabbed them, which Connix protested, but Lusi is adamant that she made it suitably quick and painless- and set them by the door, closing it once more. 

Armitage rolls up the loose lower section of his trousers and opens the casing of his leg, letting a number of tools slide out- splicer supplies, and a small portable turret.

“Okay, beta squad, you ready?” Poe asks into his comm.

“Affirmative, sir.”

Mitaka, Lusica, and Armitage take up the key positions, with Poe in the commander’s spot. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Mitaka brings the maintenance test systems online while Lusica splices in and disables the indications that they are tests. Armitage, meanwhile, begins to seal off doors and corridors to give their people a clear path to the bridge while preventing anyone else from getting to them. Peavey had been smart enough to change Hux’s personal codes, so he’s some points there for not being as completely stupid as Armitage expected- he’d simply neglected to change out the master overrides, all of which Hux had either memorized years ago or coded himself. A few things have to be spliced- nothing that he can't handle with either his own tools or a delicate cut of his dagger to a few key wires.

Poe and Connix focus on getting the sleeping officers cuffed and dragged into the nearby conference room while the preparations are made. “We good?”

“Everything’s reading green to me,” Armitage says, meeting Poe’s eyes with a smile. 

“Okay. Hit it!”

Lusica and Mitaka time their cues in sync- first the klaxons go off, ship wide, that there is a fatal error in the life support systems. Then another warning erupts, screeching to all that the ship is being evacuated. Lusica has the honor of chiming in personally after a minute or so of the computerized alert. “All personnel report to your escape pods. This is not a drill. You will eject and be retrieved by the repair station to be processed back to the _Finalizer_ when maintenance is complete. I repeat, report to your escape pods.”

By the time the rest of the deserters arrive escape pods are starting to eject all over the destroyer. Armitage feels mildly offended that his former people are so gullible. 

“Are we getting them all?” Connix asks as she sets up the portable turret just outside the bridge door. It should take care of staving anyone who realizes what’s going on and comes to check on the bridge.

“Don’t need all of them to leave. I’d settle for ‘most’.” Poe settles quite easily back into the commander’s role, even on an unfamiliar bridge. “Start preparations for hyperspace, but don’t boot the drive yet- we need as many of them as possible to get out before they realize we’re leaving.”

“Aye, sir,” Armitage says with a smirk and an arched brow, not quite serious. Poe rolls his eyes at him when he thinks no one else is looking. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Poe in full-on commander mode is rather attractive. 

“How many have ejected?”

“We’re at twenty percent of pods remaining,” Mitaka has most of the system analytics up in front of him- he’d always been good at rapid analysis. “The ship is down to… about eight thousand life signs, sir. Some of them must have acquired shore leave during the repairs, that's less than would otherwise be here.”

“Fuck.” Poe runs his hand through his hair. “Okay, Armi, can we isolate them? At least most of them? Don’t need a battle on here as soon as we jump.”

“I can seal off a majority of the ship from accessing us here… some will probably get away on TIEs or shuttles, but I can corral a fair number, yes. Some of them may also run for a pod as soon as they realize the hyperdrive is active.”

Poe sighs and nods. “Okay. Let’s do that and hope they don’t come out shooting later. Lusi, let’s do one more pass on the evacuation notice, okay? Give them one more shot to get out before we make a run for it.”

Lusica is speaking into her comm when Mitaka turns and flicks his eyes between Armitage and Poe, as thought momentarily unsure who he’s reporting to. “Uh- sirs, the repair station is hailing us.”

“Time to go.” Poe wanders over to Armitage and loops his arm over his shoulders. “Boot it up!” He leans in, lips to Armitage’s ear. “Bet you never thought you’d be stealing a destroyer.”

“I am not stealing. It was mine to begin with.” Poe ruffles his hair and Armitage swats him away.

“Nope. Stealing. You’re a regular Resistance ruffian now.” 

“The drive’s hot, sirs.” 

Poe looks like he’s just won the biggest jackpot on Canto Blight. “Punch it!”

Armitage smiles as the stars blend white in their viewports.

***

#### Six Months Later

Poe watches the spin of hysperspace outside the viewports, antsy that he has hours without anything to do. It isn’t as though he has to _command_ all the time- Mitaka, frankly, does a ridiculous portion of the work, and even those that were skeptical of the defectors came around quickly to his easy, warm demeanor. He also led the processing of the personnel who had been stuck in the _Finalizer_ ’s brig, unable to evacuate- everything from political prisoners to captured Resistance operatives, and First Order officers who’d been pulled for drunk or disorderly conduct. Nearly all of them were happy to switch over to the Resistance's side. They were replaced in the brig by the others the Resistance had captured on the ship who were not inclined to take up the offer to defect- Leia hadn’t decided what to do with them yet, but the Finalizer had the space to hold them, so there they stayed. 

“Mitaka, what’s our ETA?”

“About ten minutes sooner than the last time you asked, sir.”

Mitaka doesn’t tease Poe as much as Connix, but Poe isn’t sure if that is a bad thing. She’d taken over the cruiser they’d shared- Lusica Stynnix had stayed with her, training up to be a proper Resistance officer. He didn’t think Connix had noticed yet that Lusica more or less worshipped the ground she walked on, but Poe is very much looking forward to getting drinks with her once she’s figured it out.

When they’re all together the ship sticks out, so stark and Imperial and massive against the rest of the Resistance’s fleet. It also came equipped with a large number of TIEs and other small vessels for them to spread out as needed amongst their other ships, decoys that are helping them win. A full complement of X-wings are stored in his hangers as well now, including Black Squadron, and BB-8 has had no end of fun in converting- by force or charisma- the droids and astromechs left behind by the Order to the Resistance’s cause. 

It’s not called the _Finalizer_ anymore, of course. General Organa held a formal ceremony and re-christened the ship the _Holdo _at the same time she promoted Poe and gave him the command. Poe has it on good authority she’s making a point about leadership and sacrifice. He’s trying to live up to it- that’s all she asks.__

__Armitage’s office had still been blast-sealed when they seized the bridge, and it’s only recently been restored. It doesn’t have all the trappings it used to- Leia had been very clear that all of the master codes needed to be changed, so Armitage can’t effectively take over the ship alone if the whim strikes- but Poe has seen the little looks of contentment that cross his face when he thinks no one is watching. He’s just happy to have it back._ _

__They’ve converted it into a lab and engineering workroom, supposedly so the bridge can collectively keep a direct eye on Armi. He still has to be monitored- there still might be a trial when the war is over- but Poe is growing more certain that Armi’s going to get a pardon, one day. In the meantime, Leia’s got him on an electronic stun cuff around his biological ankle that she has strongly implied will explode if he tries to remove it. Poe’s not entirely sure if she’s kidding. Armi, fortunately, has not decided to test the theory._ _

__He glances at his sleek little wrist-set. Armi mounted both of their old New Republic comms into them- they're not the same battered units they once were, but these are much more efficient, much more visible- almost like a promise. No one here cares that they share their quarters as long as they're both happy and the war's being won. Stealing a destroyer for the cause went a long way toward ensuring both of those things continue to be true._ _

__“Mitaka, you have command.”_ _

__“Yes, sir.”_ _

__Poe heads straight for Armi’s office. Bothering Armitage during whatever he is working on is usually good entertainment. Or, alternatively, he distracts Armitage until it escalates into good entertainment. Whichever works._ _

__Armi doesn’t look up at first, nose buried in some schematics on his datapad, but he does when Poe shuts and locks the door behind him. “General Dameron.”_ _

__“Commander Hux. Have a few minutes to spare?”_ _

__Armi looks him over and slowly raises a brow. “Just a few minutes?”_ _

__“Well… perhaps more than a few.” Armitage sighs in feigned exasperation, setting his datapad aside as Poe does exactly what he always does and straddles Armi’s lap. “Haven’t desecrated your desk lately.”_ _

__“You haven’t desecrated it _this cycle,_ you insatiable terror.”_ _

__“That’s a hell of a thing to call your commanding officer.”_ _

__“Mmmhm. Going to continue rubbing that bit in, are we?”_ _

__“I have other things you could potentially rub.”_ _

__“Oh, shut up.” Armi grasps him by the collar and kisses him, hard, wrapping his arms around Poe’s waist. “You’re supposed to be on the bridge.”_ _

__“You’re supposed to be building me a shield generator.”_ _

__“Are we both derelict of duty, then?”_ _

__“Your commanding officer says no, and fortunately I am willing to listen to his wise words.”_ _

__Armi rolls his eyes. “My commanding officer is a sentimental fool.”_ _

__Poe kisses him softly. “A fool that loves you.”_ _

__“Mm. A fool for loving me.” He kisses Poe back, stroking a pale hand along his cheek. “I love you too.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for coming on this Gingerpilot ride with me! I've been so grateful for all the kudos and comments, they've really helped keep me going. I love you all, readers!
> 
> I'm @HastaLux on Tumblr if you're ever looking to get updates on other things I'm working on. <3


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